


The Rehabilitated Con Con

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Fic, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2010-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal's curiosity is piqued when he meets an old friend of Peter's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rehabilitated Con Con

**Author's Note:**

> Huge bunches-of-flowers thanks to the ficfinishing comm on LJ and my first readers, bientot, candidlily and mergatrude. Even more thanks to Miriam for plot consultancy and beta, dragonfly for beta and Ameripicking, and mergatrude for beta and sounding-boardness. *hugs you all*
> 
> [Gorgeous cover by Kanarek13.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6075834) *flails*

  

**1.**

The weather was unseasonably warm, Peter was on edge for no obvious reason, and they were late for a meeting with an insurance guy, which would inevitably be tedious and devoid of good coffee.

Neal sighed for the third time in as many minutes and adjusted his rolled-up sleeves. Moz sometimes told him that his attention to detail bordered on OCD, but Neal preferred to think of himself as meticulous and thorough. Either way, he realized belatedly that he was getting on Peter's nerves. "What?"

"Would you stop that—" Peter's gesture was blunt and exasperated. "—preening?"

"The clothes make the man, Peter," Neal said, then looked him up and down, "except in your case, apparently." Peter was a good-looking guy, fit and strong, but the way he dressed, you wouldn't know it. "I should sign you up for one of those make-over TV shows. You could be the next Cinderella story."

"I'm more interested in catching criminals than princes, thank you very much," said Peter distractedly. Then he stopped in his tracks and pointed at Neal. "You so much as google for their phone number, and I'm sending you back to prison." Neal held up his hands in surrender, and Peter hustled him into the elevator and checked his watch. "We're supposed to be there five minutes ago."

"Hey, don't look at me. I've been waiting for you." It wasn't like Peter had been doing urgent work, either; if anything, he'd been shuffling papers and stalling. He must be as excited about the insurance meeting as Neal was.

Peter hmphed and looked like he was going to say something, but when Neal raised his eyebrows, Peter just hit the button for the parking garage. They descended in silence. Neal rubbed the toe of his right shoe against his tracker and prayed for a miracle to shake things up.

 

**2.**

Miguel Serrallés, the insurance investigator they were meeting, had a good suit and a warm smile. He was about Peter's age, bald and good-looking in a Ben Kingsley kind of way, and Neal might have liked him except that something strange happened as soon as they walked into the conference room at JBA Insurance. It took Neal a few seconds to pinpoint it, in the rapid exchange of introductions and handshakes and Peter hugging Miguel—hugging him!—hello, but then they sat down. Peter pulled up a chair, his bad mood erased, Miguel opened a file, and Neal twigged that for the first time in a long time, Peter's attention wasn't on him.

The air felt flat. Neal became conscious of the drone of the heating ducts, the background chatter and ringing phones from the outer office, the dull gray sky outside. He hadn't known how much his savoir faire depended these days on the strong, reliable certainty that Peter was watching him—until now.

"Four forgeries in three different institutions," Serrallés was saying, sliding the file across to Peter. "And those are just the ones we know about."

Peter leafed forward a few pages. "A hundred and seventy-three thousand?"

"That's just for starters." Serrallés grimaced.

"That's gonna sting," remarked Neal to the room at large.

Peter was still skimming the file. "And all the forgeries are of paintings by Malcolm Maxwell." He looked up. "Any other connections?"

"Yeah," said Serrallés. "All three institutions were using the same security company, and they were all insured with us."

"And you need us to clear your good name," said Neal, sitting forward to get in on the action.

Both men ignored him.

"You've carried out an internal investigation." Peter made it sound more statement than question.

Serrallés nodded. "Of course. I can't find a weak link, but you know it's not exactly my area of expertise."

Peter smiled, as if that were a private joke, and irritation snapped at Neal's ankles. He didn't like being ignored. He didn't like feeling like a kid, excluded by the grown-ups. And he didn't like having his talents go unrecognized.

But what could he do? He sat by while Peter spent ten minutes taking details and making small talk, including, "Hey, you should come for dinner. El would love to see you!" and "No, no, I'll take you guys out. I've just discovered a fabulous little Greek place in SoHo. Give Lucy my love."

 

**3.**

"Who's Lucy?" asked Neal, in the car on the way back to the office.

"A mutual friend," said Peter, smiling to himself. He glanced across. "What?"

"Nothing."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Neal punched on the radio but it was all commercials and tinny pop music, so he turned it off again before Peter could decide he wanted to listen to Lady Gaga all the way back to midtown. "So, what's the plan? Am I going undercover as an insurance guy?"

The prospect wasn't thrilling, but at least he'd be under Peter's surveillance. It was worrying how important that suddenly seemed.

But Peter said, "Nothing so exciting. We need to find out the extent of the problem. That means going around the galleries and museums, checking all the Maxwells—originals and forgeries. We'll limit our investigation to New York for now. Maybe you'll recognize the forger's technique or can at least get a feel for who's behind this. "

Neal brightened. It wasn't the adrenalin rush he might have hoped for, but it was always satisfying to catch out someone else's work. But Peter's next words took the shine off that bubble, too.

"Jones can go with you," he said.

Neal blinked and schooled himself not to show his disappointment. "What about you? What will you be doing?"

"Miguel and I are going to talk to the security guards and the staff at JBA." Peter shook his head. "How much of that meeting did you zone out for?"

Neal would have said none, that he'd caught every detail, except apparently that wasn't true. What was with him today? He unrolled his sleeves and fastened his cuffs, and didn't answer.

When Peter pulled into his usual spot in the FBI's garage, he took the keys out of the ignition and turned to look at Neal. "Okay, spit it out. What's eating you?"

"I'm good," said Neal reflexively, and then, despite himself, "You and Serrallés used to work together?"

"We go back," said Peter, and that was no kind of answer, but he was out of the car before Neal could push for more.

 

**4.**

"Miguel Serrallés," said Mozzie that night, dropping a thin envelope onto Neal's dining table. "Not much dirt on the guy—at least, not on paper. He must be good at covering his tracks."

"What?" Neal pushed aside the volume he was reading on the Judicial Process—it paid to stay ahead of the curve—and picked up the envelope. "No, Moz. He's not crooked—at least, not as far as I know. He called us in on a case today. He's a friend of Peter's."

"And?" Moz plonked into the chair opposite and stared at him. "You're stalking the Suit's friends," he said flatly. "This doesn't bode well."

"I'm getting you to stalk them."

"I suppose I should be glad you have that much self-preservation." Mozzie took off his glasses and gestured with them. "But this is getting way out of control. You're in thrall to one of the most dangerous branches of the government, and I don't say that lightly! Do you know what they can do to you, if you don't keep your wits about you?"

"All the more reason to be prepared," Neal extemporized. "I can't play the obedient lackey if I don't know who I'm dealing with." He opened the envelope and pulled out half a dozen surveillance photos from God knew where and a thin dossier. Serrallés was born in 1962, had married in 1995 and divorced in 1998. No children. No police record. He'd started out as an art teacher in Williamsburg, before opening a charity gallery. "Art for Life. I've heard of this place."

Moz put his glasses back on. "They solicit donated pieces from mid-level artists, and all the profits go to local schools." He perked up. "Maybe it's a scam."

"I don't think so," said Neal, and kept reading. After transferring the gallery to a charitable trust, Serrallés had started in sales at JBA Insurance Group, who transferred him to their HQ in Dallas in 2003. He was still based there.

"Anything?" asked Moz, setting up the chessboard du jour.

"Not yet." Neal put aside the printed pages and picked up the photos. They weren't recent—Serrallés had short dark hair—and they were taken in Manhattan. A couple of shots of him getting into a car, one going into a bank, one at an outdoor cafe, and two of him walking a dog. Neal put them down, then picked them up again and looked closer. The dog looked an awful lot like a younger Satchmo. That had to be a coincidence.

He put the photos back in the envelope before Moz noticed anything, and turned his attention to the chess board.

Moz won the chess game, stayed up to gloat for another hour and then bunked down on the couch.

Neal went to bed and lay with his arm behind his head, looking up through the skylight and making himself remember all the things he used to want out of life.

 

**5.**

When Peter picked Neal up the next morning, Miguel Serrallés was in the passenger seat. Neal got in the back. "You're late."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Peter. "Are we upsetting your busy work schedule?" He pulled out from the curb without waiting for Neal's answer, and Neal sat back and tried not to sulk.

"As I was saying," said Serrallés, angling to include Neal in the conversation, "the Lambert Museum called yesterday afternoon. Two more Maxwells."

"You're meeting Jones there," Peter told Neal. "He has a list of the other Maxwells in the city. Whoever this guy is, he's specializing, and there's nothing to say he won't go after all of them."

"Most art reproductionists do specialize," Neal pointed out. He nearly added, _Not everyone's as adaptable as I am,_ but stopped himself just in time.

Peter glanced in the rear view mirror. "Who do you know who works in classical realism?"

"No one." Neal frowned. "It's someone who's either very good or very discreet."

"Or both." Serrallés looked at Peter and raised his eyebrows. "Speaking of discreet, are we on for dinner tonight?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

The murmured question and Peter's warm response made Neal's eyes widen. They were or had been romantically involved—he'd bet his life on it. Certainty solidified when Peter glanced in the rear view mirror, cleared his throat and changed the subject back to the case, leaving Neal's head teeming with questions: Peter with a man? How had Neal not known? Did Elizabeth know? God, Peter had said, their first day on the job, that the Bureau didn't care about that kind of thing, but Neal had never dreamed he was talking about himself.

Neal had limited experience with men—a few marks, some teenage experimentation, nothing serious. He'd put all that behind him when he met Kate—she'd wanted straight, so that's what he'd been.

But _Peter_? It should be laughable, but when Neal closed his eyes, the images he conjured up were far from comic. He'd never thought about Peter and Elizabeth's sex life—it was none of his business, after all, and if he'd had to speculate, he would have guessed solid, routine, comfortable—but context was everything. Now images of Peter naked, aroused, his big hands gripping anonymous male hips—

"You okay back there?" Peter's dry enquiry brought Neal back to the present with a start, and he scrambled for composure.

Paintings. Classical realism. The Maxwell forgeries. "I'm wracking my brains for possible culprits," said Neal, and dutifully considered the matter to render the statement true. "DT Carter?"

"He's in prison," said Peter. "We caught him last year with a Turner."

"Oh right." Neal shrugged. "Then I've got nothing."

Peter's eyes narrowed, but apparently Serrallés' presence was enough to stop him enquiring further.

Serrallés. Neal's liking for the man had soured in seconds. It wasn't fair, and Neal knew it, but Peter was his: his handler, his prize, his partner. Neal was the one who sat in the passenger seat and discussed cases with him. Neal was the one who teased him, eliciting that expression that was half smile, half exasperated frown. Neal was the one who _knew_ Peter. Where did Neal belong if Serrallés was quite literally in his place?

Commonsense reasserted itself with an effort. How involved could Peter be with the man if Neal hadn't known about him until now? It must be in the past, and would be forgotten again once this case was over. Everything would go back to normal.

It was disturbing to discover that being shackled and serving out his sentence at the behest of the FBI was normal now, was in fact necessary for Neal's comfort. That was not good. It was time Mozzie came through with a solution to the tracker.

 

**6.**

The Lambert Museum wasn't much help in Neal's quest to get his mind back on track. Neal had never been there before, but he knew it by reputation: it housed the largest collection of male nudes in the United States. Neal and Jones walked through several rooms of muscled body after reclining muscled body—some with erections, some without; some coy, some brazen—to get to the archive room, where the two Maxwell paintings were stored: one of a middle-aged man floating naked on his back in the sea; the second of the same man draped face-down on a red velvet couch. As reported, both of them were forgeries.

Neal and Jones were only there for half an hour, but it felt like longer. They walked down the front steps of the Museum, and Neal stretched out his neck and rolled his shoulders, shaking off the dust-and-old-paint smell of the archive room and the images of a hundred penises. "Man, I need a coffee."

"I know what you mean." Jones looked a little worse for the wear too, so Neal talked him into an extended coffee break before they headed back to the office.

He took the opportunity to do a little digging. "So, have you guys worked on a lot of cases for JBA?"

"Not really," said Jones. "They insure a lot of galleries and museums, but it's not like they have an unusually high number of claims or anything." He gave Neal a piercing look. "Why—you think they're pulling a scam?"

"Oh, no," said Neal quickly. "I was just wondering—is that how Peter and Serrallés met? They seem like they know each other pretty well."

"They go way back." Jones shrugged and pulled the list of Maxwells out of his pocket. "Come on, we've got four more places to check out."

 

**7.**

Moz was absent that evening, so Neal put on some jazz and cooked himself dinner, and then sat on the couch and opened his sketchbook. His parole conditions might curtail his activities, but that wouldn't last forever, and a man had to keep his hand in.

He set about recreating some of DaVinci's lesser known sketches, his pen scratching confidently across the page, and let his mind wander. Peter and Elizabeth were having dinner with Serrallés in SoHo. If it hadn't been for his tracker, he might have wandered past—not to spy on them exactly, but to ensure they were having a good time. Perhaps they'd have invited him to join them. Then he'd have been able to find out about the mysterious Lucy, and he could have seen Elizabeth and Serrallés together and decided for himself whether Elizabeth knew about Peter's history with the man. Assuming Neal was right about that.

If it weren't for the tracker, he'd definitely be in SoHo right now.

He dated the sketch and turned the page, switching to charcoal and drawing the room before him. It was good observational practice and soothing. He filled in the bookcase and the television, and in the bottom corner of the picture the coffee table with his own feet propped upon it. On a whim, he replaced the tracker with Peter's hand, blunt fingers in place of the gray plastic. That's what it felt like sometimes—nothing to do with the US Marshalls or the FBI, nothing to do with punishment. It felt personal: Peter's hand restraining him, steadying him, tethering him to this life in this place.

Neal wondered how Peter felt about their arrangement. He'd said he pulled a map up on Neal every day. Was that habit by now? Was it a power trip? Were he and Elizabeth talking about him with Serrallés, and if so, what were they saying? Neal cast aside the sketchbook and the stick of charcoal, pulled on a sweater and went out onto the roof. The warm weather had passed; the air was cold and heavy, and the hum of the traffic seemed louder than usual. His gaze drifted along the skyline, identifying each building, recalling the security measures, entrance and exit ways for half of them without even trying.

He was alone. He could go downstairs and find June—play canasta or watch a movie with her—but he didn't like to intrude too often. Part of their unspoken arrangement was that he be self-sufficient, and since Moz visited more often than not and Neal usually enjoyed his own company, that worked out just fine. But occasionally he got caught in the crosswinds of loneliness and frustration, and—Well, anyway, he wasn't in the mood to be sociable tonight.

 

**8.**

The next day, Peter teamed up with Serrallés again, while Neal and Jones talked to Maxwell's dealer and tried to get in touch with the artist himself, who seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Neal was impatient with the whole thing—they weren't even good forgeries! The brushwork was too sophisticated to match the originals. He wanted to get back to the Bureau offices, and it wasn't for the coffee.

At lunchtime he bought two mid-range tickets to the orchestra for that night, and just after six, when he knew Peter was in a late meeting with Hughes and the other senior case agents, and he could be confident the Marshals would assume he was still with Peter, he dropped in on Elizabeth at home. She answered the door in jeans and a shirt, with an empty coffee mug in one hand.

"Neal," she said, somewhere between amused and bemused. One of the things Neal liked about Elizabeth was that she was smart and insightful, and she found Neal entertaining. It was a refreshing contrast to Peter, whose perceptiveness often shaded into suspicion or disapproval. She waved Neal inside. "Are you looking for Peter? He's still at work."

"Oh, really? I must have missed him somehow." Neal produced the tickets with a casual flourish. "He left these on his desk, and I know how much you love the orchestra. I'd hate for you to miss out because they slipped his mind." In fact, Neal's knowledge of Elizabeth's orchestral tastes was entirely speculation, but he trusted his instincts.

She took the tickets and her smile deepened into a grin. "That was thoughtful of you. Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"Only if it's not too much trouble." Neal bent down to greet Satchmo. "Hey there, boy." Satchmo licked his hand and sniffed his pockets, hoping for snacks. Neal gave him a consolatory pat and stood up again, glancing around. There were a couple of photo albums stacked on the coffee table, but nothing else was out of the ordinary.

"Is Peter going to look surprised when I show him these?" asked Elizabeth, reading the details on the tickets. She went over to her laptop on the dining table and saved the file she'd been working on.

Neal hid a smile, pleased with her deductive skills. "He might have forgotten buying them. You know how he gets when he's working a case."

"Uh-huh." She tucked the tickets into her back pocket, swung her empty cup from her index finger and went into the kitchen.

Neal followed, but stopped in the doorway and leaned on the jamb, propping the door open with his foot. "Actually, I was wondering if you could assuage my curiosity," he said. "Who's Lucy?"

Satchmo gave a short bark from behind him, making him jump, and Elizabeth laughed. "That's your answer right there." She tucked her hair behind her ear and put the coffee on. "What on earth made Peter mention her to you?"

Neal blinked. "Satchmo is Lucy?"

"Lucy Pawless is his drag queen name," said Elizabeth. She leaned her hip against the counter and folded her arms. "We never actually dressed him up, of course. We only talked about it as a joke."

"Huh."

Elizabeth's eyes widened a fraction, and he could see misgivings form and the exact moment when she twigged that this might not be a purely social call or Neal being randomly, charmingly curious. Her body was poised to move, but she stayed still. "Neal, why are you really here?"

He froze too for a microsecond, unnerved by her uncanny ability to see through him, then decided he might as well come clean. "How well do you know Miguel Serrallés?"

It was her turn to blink. "He's an old friend," she said with an odd inflection. She went to the refrigerator for creamer and got another mug from the cabinet above the counter. "Why do you ask?"

Was she deliberately averting her face? Neal couldn't be sure. "He and Peter seem very close."

Elizabeth's shoulders relaxed, and she turned back and smiled. "What's the matter?" Her eyes glinted with mischief. "Jealous?"

"Are you?" asked Neal.

"I have no reason to be jealous of Miguel," she said calmly, but the glint was gone.

There were undercurrents here Neal couldn't fathom. He raised his eyebrows. "Do I?"

Elizabeth shook her head and started to pour the coffee. "It's okay, my dear. Miguel couldn't possibly take your place."

"He has his own place," guessed Neal.

"Had." She put down the coffeepot and her face went blank and expressionless. "It's really none of your business, and you know that or you'd be asking Peter directly."

Neal pulled up his pants cuff slightly, displaying the tracker. "I've always felt the normal rules of privacy don't apply to Peter and me," he said lightly, trying to get the conversation back onto safe ground.

Elizabeth handed him a cup. "Well, don't expect me to be your snitch. And do me the kindness of letting ancient history stay buried, okay?"

"I'm sorry," he said, even though he wasn't really sure what he was apologizing for. He studied her, noting the tension around her eyes, the tucked-down corner of her mouth. It only made him more curious, but he didn't want to hurt her. In fact, he felt an unexpected impulse to bend down and kiss away the hints of sadness. He stepped away. "So, how's party season treating Burke Premier Events?"

 

**9.**

When Peter collected Neal the next morning, he was on his own for the first time since the Maxwell case started. He waited for Neal to fasten his seatbelt and then pulled into the morning traffic, but they were heading in the wrong direction for the office.

"Where are we going?" asked Neal, turning his hat in his lap.

"You'll see."

"How was the orchestra?"

Peter gave him a withering look. "Shrill. Two hours of violins and piccolos. Remind me that I owe you."

"A favor?" Neal hid a smirk. He'd guessed Sibelius wouldn't really be Peter's style, but it was fun to torment him, especially when it could be done without giving him the chance to retaliate in kind.

Peter snorted and parked the car. "Come on."

Fuelled as much by curiosity as Peter's authority, Neal followed him up the street and into a Starbucks. "Let me guess. Someone stole their priceless logo?"

"No," said Peter. "We need to talk." He sounded more resigned than angry or forbidding, and Neal relaxed, warm and a little triumphant at having won Peter's full attention without even breaking the law to do it. The latte Peter bought him didn't hurt either.

They sat in the window, and Peter looked out at the people walking past, huddled in their jackets, some wearing scarves. Neal placed his hat on the table, fiddled with some sugar packets and watched Peter watching them.

"You told El that you think we have a different standard of privacy, you and me," said Peter abruptly.

Neal shrugged, making it look casual. Peter had some nerve calling him on that. "You said, and I quote, 'I pull a map up on you every day.' It seems only fair that I—"

"You're on parole," Peter interrupted. He pointed at the formica tabletop. "That's my job. Your job is to behave yourself and stay out of trouble." He still wasn't acting mad, just firm, but there was a spark burning beneath the surface—Neal could feel it.

He quelled the suicidal urge to draw it out, dropped the packets and held up his hands in self-defense. "Peter—"

Peter rode right over him. "And even if you did have a right to invade my privacy, what about El? Or is my wife just collateral damage to you?"

There was the anger, grim and contained, but Neal was too confused by the conversation to manage it properly. "What's this got to do with Elizabeth?"

Peter took a deep breath and glared at Neal, and Neal sat very still.

"I just want to know what's going on," he added, after a moment's silence. Three young women walked past with muffins and cups of coffee, and sat at the table behind Peter. Neal lowered his voice. "Serrallés comes along and all of a sudden you're handing me off to Jones? I thought you were supposed to be keeping your eye on me."

Peter blew out his breath, exasperated and—apparently and blessedly—amused by his own exasperation. He took a drink of his coffee and said, "Okay. One day you're going to have to learn about boundaries, but—" He shook his head as if that were a lost cause, and Neal risked a small grin.

Peter's shoulders settled down in response, making his jacket sag a little around the neck. "The thing is, Miguel and El and I used to live together."

And Elizabeth? Neal felt his eyes widen, despite himself. "Live together?"

"In a relationship. Long time ago." Peter met his gaze steadily.

"Oh." Neal dropped the packet and took a sip of his latte. He should have known Peter wouldn't go behind Elizabeth's back, but it had never occurred to him that Elizabeth would be into a threesome. He palmed a sugar packet and then produced it from under his hat as misdirection.

"It's none of your business," said Peter, not falling for the magic trick, "but I figured you'd just keep turning over rocks till I told you, so—" He shrugged, then rubbed the back of his thumb along his jaw line. "I'd appreciate your discretion."

"Of course." Neal's head was still spinning: Peter really did have a history with men—and Elizabeth too. In her case, with men, plural. Did she like being the center of attention? Did she like to watch Peter with another guy? Or maybe they didn't do it all together—maybe they took turns. If it were Neal, he was pretty sure he'd want them both at once. He clamped down on that line of thought before Peter could read his mind. "I can keep a secret."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Thank you. And next time, leave El out of it and spare me the trial by orchestra."

Neal nodded. Peter and Elizabeth and Miguel. "So what now?" he asked. "Are you getting the band back together?"

"You just skated right over the none-of-your-business part, didn't you?" said Peter. His half-smile turned wistful, an echo of Elizabeth's from the night before. "No," he said. "This is the first time we've seen Miguel since—" He gave a minute shrug. "El and me are good now, and you know what they say: if it ain't broke—"

"—don't fix it," Neal finished for him. He repositioned his hat on the table and then looked up again. "Thanks, Peter."

Peter's eyes narrowed. "For what?"

"For trusting me enough to tell me the truth." It felt good to be in the know, not to mention— "And for going a whole conversation without threatening to incarcerate me."

Peter laughed outright at that, then caught Neal's expression and raised his eyebrows, his amusement fading. "That really bugs you, huh?"

"What do you think?" Neal bent his head. Prison wasn't an experience he was in any hurry to repeat, and the constant warnings that it was only a missed step away were always disheartening. It went against the grain to admit it, but Peter had made himself vulnerable—Neal could do the same. "I appreciate being treated like a partner."

"Okay."

Neal tapped his fingernails against the tabletop, waiting for the FBI equivalent of "When you behave like an adult, we'll treat you like one," but Peter just left it there, open-ended.

Neal picked up his cup and drank the rest of his coffee. "Okay."

 

**10.**

That night he drew Rembrandt's _The Bather_ with Elizabeth's face, frowned at it for a long moment, and then flipped the page of his sketchbook and drew from memory a pencil copy of Maxwell's nude man on a couch—the one at the Lambert. Who was forging all the Maxwells? Why Maxwell? He wasn't a particularly well-known artist—his works certainly wouldn't sell for more than five figures, and he was still alive, living locally. Sure, there were advantages to going after middle-sized fish—people were less likely to check for papers and provenance—but it was bad form to forge a living artist's work, not to mention unnecessarily risky.

Neal scowled at his reproduction. He'd given the figure Peter's ears, a familiar tilt of the head—Artistically, it was an improvement on the original, but that wasn't what copying was about. He was losing focus, distracted.

Peter and Elizabeth and Miguel. All together.

Neal dated the picture, put his sketchbook safely away and went to take a shower. A long shower that involved hot water and soapsuds and a vivid fantasy of Peter, naked and on his knees, gripping Neal's thighs and sucking him off while Elizabeth held Neal's face and kissed him, her breasts full against his chest.

When he was done, he leaned against the shower wall, panting, still full of lingering desire. Peter and Elizabeth. Peter and Elizabeth and him.

 

**11.**

The next morning was gray and rainy, but Neal woke early, energized and with a hunch about the case. He spent some quality time with Google, headed out before seven, and sent Peter a text message to meet him at the Freyberg Library at nine-thirty. He was waiting outside when Peter and Miguel turned up.

"Have you got something? We're supposed to be talking to the night-shift security guards at the Lambert," said Miguel.

Neal made himself stop staring at Peter's mouth and glanced at him. "Trust me." He led the way inside.

The Freyberg library foyer had oak-paneled walls hung with portraits, and the first floor housed various historic documents, but upstairs there were two rooms with permanent exhibitions. The curator's office door was open, and Neal waved to her as they passed. She waved back.

"Neal, what's going on?" asked Peter.

Neal took them into the room at the end of the corridor and pointed at the far wall. "This."

Peter shot him a curious look and walked over to see. He put his hands on his hips and studied the four Maxwells, hung in pairs. "Two of these are original Maxwells and two are the forgeries of them."

"Nope." Neal was enjoying himself hugely. "They're all genuine Maxwells."

Miguel came up behind them. "Oh." He stepped closer, his attention caught. "Ohh, Peter, you were right about this kid." He gave Neal an approving nod, and light bounced off his bald head. "Smart. I take it you found the artist."

"His dealer was pretty helpful once I convinced her that we could probably make the charges go away if the originals were returned," said Neal.

"What are you talking about?" Peter shoved his hands in his coat pockets and stared at the paintings, frowning, obviously trying to see what they were seeing. The light source was lower in the copies, and the light itself was subtly softer, a pearly gray.

"He's getting cranky now," Miguel told Neal with a wink. "We should've stopped for coffee on the way."

Peter's frown segued into a scowl. "I'm not getting cranky! You two are being cryptic."

Neal grinned, buffered from Peter's tetchiness by Miguel's presence. Perhaps it was satisfaction from solving the mystery, or a result of Miguel's admiration of his skill, but Miguel wasn't getting on his nerves today like he had been. Neal raised his eyebrows, and Miguel nodded for him to go ahead.

"The Maxwell forgeries," said Neal, "were painted by the same guy who did the originals."

"Maxwell forged his own paintings?" Peter narrowed his eyes, leaning back a little so he could see the pairs of paintings properly. Neal could almost hear the intricate gears turning in his head. Peter turned to face them, scowl erased. "Why?"

Miguel shrugged. "He probably thought he was improving them."

"Correcting them," said Neal. Maxwell had been painfully embarrassed by the originals, enumerating their faults and loath to let them out of his studio. He'd only relented when Neal had assured him the alternative was going to prison, and that the FBI would track him down if he tried to run.

"Correcting. Right." Miguel nodded. "Did you get all of them?"

"They're being delivered to the FBI as we speak." Moz had been reluctant to play courier to the Bureau, but Neal had successfully bribed him with opera tickets.

"So, case closed." Peter shot Neal a pleased smile.

Neal almost bounced on the balls of his feet. "Looks like it."

 

**12.**

When they returned to the car, Miguel voluntarily took the back seat, leaving Neal to ride shotgun. The whole vibe had changed. It was partly because they'd solved the case, but there was something else too. Peter must have told Miguel that Neal knew about their history—and although Neal normally thought of Peter as his own personal territory, at least during work hours, it was amusing to observe Miguel teasing him, and to get his own hits in when the opportunity arose.

Peter took all this with good-humor, obviously pleased that they'd recovered the paintings, and Neal felt about ten feet tall and invincible by the time they arrived at the office.

They checked that all of the original Maxwells were present and accounted for. Looking at them, Neal had a certain sympathy for the artist wanting to fix them—it never hurt to put a shine on things, after all—but that was business. Once you sold a piece, you had to relinquish ownership and move on.

As they left the FBI's secure storage room, Miguel ran the flat of his hand down his tie and said, "Come on, you two. The drinks are on me."

"You don't have to—" Peter started.

"Or, I should say, on my expense account," said Miguel, and hustled them out of the building before Peter could protest any further, and a couple of blocks downtown through the wintry afternoon to a wine bar he said they'd like.

"How'd you figure it out?" Peter asked on the way, sounding suitably impressed.

Neal stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged with fake modesty. "They were bad forgeries. A good forgery doesn't try to improve upon the original—it's as exact a copy as possible. And no one had been trying to offload the originals, though they must have had nearly a dozen by now."

"That's it?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "You weren't relying on rumors this time?"

"That's all." Neal allowed his smugness to show. "I had a hunch. Anyway, no one forges paintings by artists who're still alive. It's asking for trouble."

"Hmm," said Peter, apparently filing that away for future reference. Sometimes Neal was sure Peter just kept him around so he could learn more about the criminal mind.

The bar was expensive and quiet, with framed black and white photos of Crete on its claret-colored walls. They were led to a corner booth near the fireplace, and Miguel ordered a bottle of 1995 Brut Champagne Henriot. "I called El and invited her to join us." He sat back and surveyed Neal and Peter with mischief in his eyes. "You know, you two and El would make a cute team."

It was obvious from his expression that he wasn't talking about work. Had Neal inadvertently let slip some hint that he'd been thinking the exact same thing? He stayed carefully relaxed and waited for Peter's response.

Which was calm and amused. "Oh, I don't think so." Peter took off his tie, rolled it up and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket, then shucked off his jacket and slung it over the back of the bench seat. "Neal's already found The One."

"There can be only one?" said Miguel, and Peter chuckled as if that were an old joke between them.

"There can if you're Neal Caffrey."

Neal couldn't object. It seemed the height of disloyalty to Kate to state outright that he'd moved on, even if it was the truth.

"Oh, come on," said Miguel, including Neal in his grin. "Two birds in the hand beats one in the bush."

Peter held up his hands. "Forget it. Just because we've clipped his wings for now, doesn't mean he won't fly away the moment he gets the chance." He met Neal's eye for a challenging split second, then his gaze flicked back to Miguel. "Three seconds after his tracker's cut, I guarantee you he's on the next flight to God-knows-where."

"You don't know that," said Neal, annoyed by the assumption.

Peter ignored him. "Plus he's straight, and I'm responsible for him while he's on parole, so get that gleam out of your eye, Mike."

Miguel's grin turned wicked. "Whatever you say, _Pete_." He dug in his pocket and handed Neal his business card. "If you decide to go legit, give me a call. Private pays a lot better than government. A lot better."

"Hey!" Peter punched Miguel on the shoulder. "He's my consultant. At least have the courtesy to poach him behind my back!"

Neal sat back, happy to be the focus of attention. He was pretty sure Peter's protestations could be easily rendered moot, and there was something gratifying about the fact that Peter and Elizabeth's ex was making a case for him, without Neal having to say—or risk—anything at all.

On top of that, he didn't think he'd ever seen Peter so relaxed and easy-going: he'd rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, and he looked casually authoritative. His mouth, though thin-lipped, was still somehow sensual, and his eyes—eyes that saw everything, that could see into Neal and uncover all sorts of secrets—were alight with laughter. The light from the fireplace cast a warm glow across his skin that made Neal itch to touch him.

But Neal worked hard at hiding his reactions: it was one thing for Miguel to joke about teaming up, but another thing entirely for Neal to show his hand so early. He needed to strategize first. Given that Peter was the only thing standing between him and prison, it was far too dangerous to get personal before he'd done some groundwork.

 

**13.**

The champagne arrived and the waiter poured three glasses, adding a fourth when Elizabeth showed up. She was dressed for work in a tailored charcoal pantsuit and a cowl-necked red blouse, her hair up in a sophisticated knot. She slid into the booth next to Miguel, kissed his cheek and grinned across at Peter and Neal. "I hear congratulations are in order."

Peter raised his champagne glass. "To cracking a case and stopping a forger."

Neal touched the rim of his glass to Peter's, then the others'. "I'll drink to that."

"Only because you weren't the forger in question, this time," said Peter wryly. He nudged Neal's anklet with his toe. "You change teams whenever it suits you." He seemed to have accepted this as an unassailable truth.

"I swear, one day I'm going to get you to admit that I'm reformed and rehabilitated." Neal sat back, mirroring Peter's posture. "Getting caught wasn't so bad. I could have done without the jail time, but—" He shrugged and sipped his champagne. It was crisp and complex, fizzing lightly on his tongue.

"You want this to be your life?" Peter's eyebrows went up. "I thought you'd have your sights on bigger things."

Neal dipped his head and looked at Peter through his lashes—just a tiny intimation of intent. "This life has its compensations."

Peter's glass stilled, and his tongue came out to wet his lips. "Is that so?"

Neal allowed himself a small mysterious smile, then deliberately broke the moment, looking across the table. "Elizabeth, that red looks great on you. Did you enjoy the orchestra?"

"Yeah, unlike Peter, I'm not averse to strings." She smiled, but her eyes were watchful, her posture closed to him. He'd pushed too hard and misjudged her need for privacy, and the resulting damage was plain.

Miguel said something about a Knicks game and caught Peter's attention, and Neal leaned across the table. "I'm sorry about the other night," he told Elizabeth. "I was out of line."

She nodded, agreeing without softening. "It wasn't fair to put us in that position. Peter has a right to keep his personal life to himself, whatever you say."

"I know," said Neal, and for a second he even meant it. Having Elizabeth mad at him was a truly uncomfortable feeling: she'd always been his champion and ally. It hadn't occurred to him that his inquiries could be seen as a threat. When they'd been talking the other night, it hadn't occurred to her either—he'd have known—which meant she and Peter must have discussed it and reluctantly decided the safest course was to come clean. A coerced confidence. Neal ignored a twinge of guilt and summoned his most sincerely remorseful expression. "Let me make it up to you."

"Forget it," said Elizabeth, and Neal wasn't sure if that was a dismissal or a suggestion for how he could settle his debt, but since there was no way he could forget what he'd learned, he chose to take it as forgiveness. He'd find a way to win Elizabeth over. And Peter too. They might be defensive, but they were good and honest, and they usually expected the same of him, despite knowing better. That gave him a clear advantage.

 

**14.**

Neal was at home, sketching a family portrait of Elizabeth, Peter and Satchmo from memory—and leaving a Neal-sized space in it—when Mozzie showed up that evening with takeout for two. Neal put away his sketchbook and joined him at the table. "I need your help."

"Is this another one of your doomed Robin Hood ventures? Because unlike you, I actually have a functioning survival instinct, and I know better than to go barging into impossible situations from which I have no hope of escaping intact."

"It's not a venture," said Neal. "I just need to convince Peter and his wife that I'm completely reformed and rehabilitated."

"Two weeks ago you voluntarily confessed to stealing a Haustenberg." Mozzie popped a gyoza in his mouth and chewed. "Why now, all of a sudden?"

"No reason." Neal helped himself to some noodles. "I want them to trust me."

"Wait, you're going to con the Suit?" Mozzie's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Oh my God, you're going to con the Suit! I thought you liked him."

"I do," said Neal. More than he was prepared to admit, in fact. "It's not really a con, it's—" He trailed off, at a loss for what it really was. It didn't _feel_ like a real con. "It's a game."

Mozzie shook his head as if he hadn't heard. "Don't do it, man. They're not just citizens—the Suit can send you back to jail at the drop of a pen. And you know my rule: never con anyone who shoots at people for a living. No, I want no part of this."

"Peter won't shoot me," said Neal. "I just need to—"

But Mozzie was following his own train of thought. "What does he have that you want so badly and can't ask for?" he pondered. "Has he been appropriating confiscated goods? Because—"

"Peter isn't dirty," said Neal quickly, before Mozzie's speculations could get out of hand. "It's not a thing. It's—security access." That was even sort of true. "I want to get into a certain highly protected room." Peter and Elizabeth's bedroom.

"Oh really." Mozzie was obviously intrigued. "What kind of protection? Maybe we can circumvent it and save you the—"

"Come on, Moz," said Neal, before he had to start making up too many details. "You don't have to do anything—just help me figure it out. What would it take to convince you I've gone straight?"

"A full-frontal lobotomy."

Neal sighed impatiently. "Put yourself in their shoes."

"I've spent my whole life avoiding their shoes." Mozzie ate the last gyoza, then looked up and caught Neal's expression. "Okay, okay." He studied his fork thoughtfully. "You'd have to give up Kate. Everyone knows that Kate's the one who makes you make stupid decisions. If you were really over her—"

Of course. Neal clicked his chopsticks together for a moment, then nodded. "I can work with that. Thanks, Moz."

Mozzie was staring at him suspiciously. "What's this really about?"

Neal gave him a mysterious grin. "I'll tell you when it works," he said, getting up to clear the plates.

 

**15.**

Neal waited a couple of days so Peter wouldn't connect the dots too easily and then brought it up in the car on the way to interview a South African diamond importer. "I talked to Kate."

Peter turned to look at him and nearly rear-ended a station wagon. "Oh you did, did you?"

Neal pointed through the rain-spattered windshield at the road ahead. "We can talk about this later. For now, just drive."

"We can talk about it now," said Peter. "I can drive and talk." He pulled up at some traffic lights. "How's Kate doing?"

There was a fine line between seeming still hung up on her and appearing to have callously moved on. Neal treaded carefully. "She needs help. Peter, if she came to you, would you—?"

Peter gave him a searching look. "I thought rescuing Kate was your own personal Holy Grail quest."

"It was for a while—" Neal let that trail off.

Horns honked behind them, and Peter stepped on the gas. "We are talking about the same Kate here? Kate Moreau? Kate and the bottle? Kate that you broke out of maximum security for?"

Peter sounded half perplexed and half like he was enjoying himself a little too much. Neal raised his chin a little. "That's the one."

"And you're willing to let the Bureau take care of whatever mess she's supposedly got herself into?" Peter had both hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road now, but Neal could still feel his attention like static electricity. If Peter had been Satchmo, his ears would've been pricked up.

"She won't tell me what she wants," said Neal and shrugged. "There's only so many times you can lay yourself on the line for someone and have them say no, you know?"

Peter shot him a narrow-eyed look. "I don't believe it."

"What?" Neal put on his best innocent expression and quoted what Peter himself had said, when Neal was first released on parole. "'At some point you have to accept that it's over and move on. We've all been there.'" He licked his lip, giving himself a moment. It was stunningly easy to say the words and mean them. When had Kate become more of a mystery to be solved than a person he needed in his life?

Peter was silent for a couple of blocks. He found a park outside the diamond company's offices and turned to Neal before they got out of the car. "I can't say I'm not relieved to hear that. If Kate wants the Bureau's help, she can come to me." He pulled the keys from the ignition and hesitated with his hand on the door release, his eyes kind. "Are you okay?"

Neal found and held his gaze for a second, giving it all the intensity he had, and feeling Peter's response—pupils dilating, flushed cheeks—all the way down to his toes. "I told you," he said quietly. "I've moved on."

And then, before Peter could say anything—because he'd say no, it was still too soon, and a 'no' was one more obstacle Neal really didn't need—he was out of the car, standing on the street with his hands shoved in his pockets against the chill.

Peter emerged more slowly from the car, a puzzled frown on his face. "Neal—"

"So. Diamonds," said Neal, talking right over him. "What exactly did they say was missing?"

And Peter let himself get side-tracked, as Neal had known he would: Peter avoided awkward personal conversations like the plague and Neal had no compunction about taking shameless advantage of that fact.

 

**16.**

Still, that put the ball in Peter's court, at least for the time being, and Neal was prepared to play a long game, secretly proud of his own restraint. With the Maxwell case wrapped up, Miguel returned to Dallas, and Neal had Peter to himself again, more or less. He settled in to wait, making sure Peter was aware of him as often as possible, but keeping well on the circumspect side of the line.

On the surface, Peter barely seemed to respond, seemed as fondly exasperated as ever, acting almost fatherly toward Neal at times. But occasionally Neal sensed Peter's attention on him, coiled and restrained, attuned and _aware_, and there was nothing paternal about that, not at all.

Neal designed a You Have Won envelope and sent Elizabeth two anonymous tickets to a Cirque du Soleil show that he thought she'd like, and maybe the Burkes didn't see through that or maybe they did, but Peter didn't say anything specific or give him one of those spine-tingling looks, so Neal started working on the next stage of his plan.

Except either he was rusty from four years in prison or else he got over-confident. Over-confidence had always been Mozzie's diagnosis, whenever he screwed up.

It happened in the office elevator. Jones got out on the eighth floor to return some evidence to ERT, leaving Neal and Peter alone. Peter was flicking through a file, comparing witness statements, and Neal—who later wanted to plead temporary insanity, but had no one to plead it to—stepped in and reached across the file to straighten Peter's ugly brown tie. He rested his fingertips on the fabric, which was shiny and horrible, but warm from Peter's body, and—fatally—lingered there a moment, breathing in the spice of Peter's aftershave, basking in being close to him in this little magical bubble out of time, leaning in just a little to—

"Neal?"

"Mmm?" Neal blinked, awareness slamming into him, sickening and cold. He blanked everything from his face, clapped Peter on the shoulder and stepped back. "Your tie was crooked."

Even that came out breathless and off-key, and Peter was going to kill him. It was still way too soon. He'd ruined everything.

The elevator pinged and the doors slid open.

"Come on," said Peter, and led the way into the garage.

That was it. That was all he said. Neal stared at his back, dumb-founded. Either Peter was completely oblivious _and_ immune to him, or—Or what?

Neal was so thrown, it took him a full minute after he made it to the car to get his head together and register that Peter's neck was reddened, his lips pressed tight together, and he was driving with a controlled, single-minded focus that was, maybe, more about not reacting to Neal than it was about maneuvering through the city traffic. It was a good five or ten minutes before he looked at Neal again.

Meanwhile Neal sat back and breathed easy again. Okay. It was going to be okay.

 

**17.**

"Elizabeth asked me to give you this," said Peter the next morning, dropping an envelope on Neal's desk as he went past. "Jones, any sign of those files from the DC office?"

"They're in the conference room," said Jones.

Neal opened the envelope and read the note. It was an invitation to lunch in less than a dozen words. Perhaps a summons rather than an invitation. His pulse kicked up a notch. "Peter, are you—"

"I don't know anything about it." Peter swiveled to face him, but his gaze was evasive. Apparently Agent Burke was itching to get elbow-deep in the dozen or so cartons of case files for the various diamond heists of the last thirty years that had arrived that morning.

"Oookay," said Neal under his breath, and he went to help.

 

**18.**

Elizabeth was waiting for him in the bustling midtown diner indicated in the note. Neal bought a salad and coffee, and took the empty stool next to hers at the counter along the side wall, appreciating the efficiency with which she'd conveyed that this wasn't a romantic _tête-à-tête_. Voices swelled around them, and a girl a few seats down started singing Happy Birthday. Neal bent to speak into Elizabeth's ear. "Hey there."

She jumped a little and closed the business magazine she'd been reading. "Hi, Neal. How're you doing?"

"Great. It's good to see you. You're looking well."

She was dressed for work, not pleasure, and her attitude was friendly but cool. Meeting her eye, Neal had a premonition that she was about to warn him off, and the prospect was far from disappointing: open negotiation was his forte and would inevitably bring him one step closer to success.

Elizabeth studied him for a long moment, then took a drink from her coffee and said, "Neal, what is it you think you want from Peter?"

Neal looked over his shoulder at the mass of people moving past. "Shouldn't he be here for this?"

Wry humor touched Elizabeth's face. "He's Peter. He's hoping if he ignores it, it'll go away." She took a bite of her sandwich and met Neal's gaze. "I'm authorized to negotiate on his behalf. What do you want from him?"

Neal leaned in, deliciously aware of her. "From both of you."

"What are you saying?" Her eyes widened, and she moved away a little, her spine straightening.

He tilted his head modestly. There was no graceful way to put it into words, so instead he said suggestively, "What do you think I'm saying?"

Elizabeth's eyebrow arched, but she wasn't unmoved. Neal could read desire in the lines of her body. He felt a little breathless himself.

"Now that Miguel's gone back to Dallas—" he murmured, pitching his voice just loud enough that she could hear.

"Stop." Elizabeth's crisp tone was clearly intended to bring Neal to his senses. "It's not a job opening, Neal. You don't get to apply for the position." She stared at him, and he nodded reluctantly. Then she softened. "He cares about you more than he wants to, and he trusts you more than he wants to, but you can't put him in that position. It isn't fair."

"Fair to him?" Neal put his hand on her arm for a moment. "What about to you?"

Elizabeth picked up her sandwich and took another bite. "I'm not rushing into anything either."

Neal felt a pang of disappointment, as blinding as winter sunlight on water, before he remembered this was just the first stage of negotiations, the first battle. There was a whole campaign yet to be carried out, and he was sure to win in the end.

"How about you?" said Elizabeth. "This isn't really what you want, is it? You're Neal Caffrey—you can't really think you'd be happy with us?"

Neal couldn't answer, the "yes" in his throat too honest to utter. Where had that come from?

Elizabeth must have seen his confusion. "It only works if we all want the same thing," she said softly. "Otherwise it's a disaster in the making."

Neal swallowed and hid his unexpected emotions in his coffee cup. "That sounds like the voice of experience."

She turned away slightly, toward the wall, and straightened her magazine. "Things with Miguel were—complicated."

"You got hurt," Neal translated slowly. For a second he wished Serrallés was still in town so he could exact some kind of subtle revenge on her behalf. How dare he hurt Elizabeth, of all people.

His quiet fury must have shown on his face, because Elizabeth's hand was on his shoulder. "It wasn't anyone's fault." She shrugged. "It's just the way it works. It gets exponentially more complicated."

She gave him a sweet rueful smile, and there was a rushing sound in his ears like he was falling, but he couldn't say anything, couldn't do anything about it. He wasn't ready. It was too soon.

 

**19.**

Now that Neal had been explicitly warned off, he was going to have to up his game. It was time for extreme measures. Giving up Kate hadn't been enough—he needed to appear wholly reformed, domesticated and normal. He found the solution the following Saturday: her name was Celine.

Mozzie turned up at June's while Neal was still getting her settled in. He stopped just inside the door and bristled like a cat. "Where did you get that?"

Neal had grabbed Celine's collar as soon as the door opened. He looked up from his position on the floor by the couch. "Union Square."

Moz blinked and shut the door, circling the couch but keeping a safe distance while Celine watched him, equally warily, her nose quivering. "You stole a dog from Union Square?"

"A puppy. Bought. From the pet store, Moz," said Neal. He rubbed Celine's fuzzy charcoal-colored ears. "They were having an adoption weekend with one of the shelters."

"You." Mozzie stopped, apparently lost for words. Naturally that didn't last long. "You're insane. I suspected you were losing your grip on reality and now I have living, panting proof."

"Nothing says settled down and respectable like a dog," said Neal, and bent his head so he was nose to nose with Celine. "Does it, baby?"

Mozzie made a choking noise.

Neal petted Celine one more time and then stood up and went to refill her water dish. "How many career criminals do you know with pets?"

"Exactly my point. What." Mozzie took off his glasses, cleaned them and slid them back on. "What were you thinking? It's enormous and it has teeth that evolved for the specific purpose of tearing into raw flesh."

"I was going to get a cat, but—look at her." He regarded her proudly. She was perfect. She was the definition of domesticated. Peter and Elizabeth couldn't possibly think he'd chosen her as cover. And once he'd won them over, he'd find Celine a real home—maybe a family who'd take care of her properly. She was young and cute enough that that shouldn't be a problem.

Mozzie was looking pained. "Her?"

"Mozzie," said Neal grandly, "meet Celine." On cue, Celine went over and sniffed him, and then threw up on his shoes.

Neal spent the evening listening to Mozzie's intermittent puppy-related reproaches while they viewed and critiqued the Ocean's 11 and 12 remakes and Neal got distracted watching Celine gnaw on her chew toy and, later, curl up to sleep in her new basket. Every so often, she'd trot over to the door and scratch on it whining, or nuzzle up against Neal's foot, and he'd have to pause the movie and redirect her to her doggy toilet in the bathroom or settle her down again, but eventually she fell into a snuffling puppy sleep. Neal got out his sketchpad.

"Are we watching this movie or not?" asked Mozzie.

Neal glanced up from drawing one drooping woolly ear. "I can multitask."

"Fine." Mozzie crossed his legs and wriggled his toes in their sock. "You owe me new shoes."

"You said that already." Neal already preferred Celine's company to Mozzie's.

 

**20.**

"We just need to figure out how he's getting the diamonds out of the vault," Peter was explaining as they walked along the sidewalk to the diamond importers. "It's under twenty-four hour guard and there are security cameras on every entrance. Neal, what are you doing?"

"Did you know that dog hair gets everywhere?" asked Neal, plucking wiry strands from the sleeve of his jacket. He was going to have to get some suits in Celine-gray.

"Yeah, I did know that," said Peter. "Don't tell me June's finally got you walking her dog. I thought your domestic duties were more theory than practice."

Neal sent him a reproachful look. "Peter, did you just call me a freeloader?"

"If the hat fits," said Peter, moving aside to make room for a woman in a wheelchair who was passing.

Neal, now behind him, said, "Actually, I've adopted a dog." Peter stopped dead and Neal walked straight into him. Neal recovered quickly and stepped sideways so he could see Peter's face. "An Irish wolfhound called Celine."

Peter's expression was priceless. "An Irish wolfhound?" He stared at Neal. He couldn't have been more astonished if Neal had said he was running for President. "Really?"

"Sure," said Neal easily, enjoying his reaction. He elbowed him into moving and they started walking again. "I took her to the park yesterday. She loved it—met her first squirrel. You should've seen her."

"An Irish wolfhound," repeated Peter, as if he hadn't heard. "Aren't they big?"

"Tallest dog breed on average," said Neal. "Celine's still a puppy though. Only about two feet tall. Hey, we should introduce her to Satchmo sometime and see if they hit it off."

Peter caught his sleeve and hauled him to the side of the pavement. "No," he said. "No, you cannot actually have acquired a puppy in order to—to—"

Neal raised his eyebrows. The surprise had been fun—this was better. He got a jolt of adrenaline as he watched Peter cast about for words to describe the unacknowledged attraction between them.

"To engineer," said Peter, "some kind of domestic situation. A puppy. Not even you would stoop that low." He shook his head. "Especially not in an apartment. Who does the dog really belong to?"

"She's mine, Peter." Neal dug his hands in his pockets, feeling faintly uncomfortable, but all was fair in love and war—and that included puppies. "I can show you her registration if you want. I decided I needed the company, if you must know."

"You—" Peter snapped his mouth shut and half turned away, inhaling deeply through his nose, obviously frustrated and incredulous and working hard to keep his reaction in check. It made Neal itch to grab him by the lapels of his stupid coat and kiss him senseless.

Since that would clearly be counterproductive at this stage of the game, he smiled and shrugged instead, and then held up a finger. "Oh, speaking of which, I should really drop by at lunchtime and check she's okay. If we have time, that is."

He turned toward the entrance to the diamond importers. Behind him, he heard Peter mutter, "A puppy?"

Neal grinned.

 

**21.**

They didn't manage to stop in on Celine until nearly two-thirty, but they'd caught the thief by then so Peter was happy and agreed to drop by on the way back to the office. "I'll wait in the car."

"Don't be like that," said Neal. "Come on, don't you want to meet her? You're practically her next of kin."

Peter gave him an amused look—he'd recovered his composure-around-Neal sometime between cracking Stolson's M.O. and slapping the cuffs on—and said, "How'd you figure that?" But he got out of the car and followed Neal inside.

"Haversham doesn't like animals and June already has a dog," said Neal. "So if you throw me back in prison, you get Celine."

"If—" started Peter, but they were upstairs by then, and Neal opened the door, and Celine, who must have heard their approaching footsteps, bolted. Peter reached out and nabbed her by the collar as if she were a short, hairy fleeing suspect. Her claws scrabbled against the polished wooden floors, and then she turned to Peter and sniffed him curiously.

Neal watched him pick her up and carry her inside as if she were a normal puppy-sized puppy, murmuring reassuring nothings, and Neal got that rushing sound in his ears again, like he had talking to Elizabeth in the diner. It didn't even go away when he saw the messes Celine had made.

He tossed Peter one of her chew toys and said, "Distract her," grabbed a large roll of paper towels and a bottle of Nature's Miracle and quickly wiped up where necessary, refilled the food and water dishes and put the books back on the shelves.

Having a puppy was more work than he'd realized, but standing in the bathroom doorway looking across at Peter on the floor rubbing Celine's tummy while her tail wagged so hard it nearly came loose, Neal was convinced beyond doubt that it was worth it. Peter might be awkward around children and tears, but he obviously adored Celine on sight.

Neal tore his gaze away and put some water on to boil for coffee, not wanting to interrupt their bonding session, trying to keep his own reaction under wraps, because really it was still too soon, he wasn't even sure if Peter was on the hook, let alone Elizabeth, and he had weeks of Celine-and-Satchmo outings planned, getting dog advice from Peter and Elizabeth, working his way into their lives—and because, he realized with a flash of impending panic, he was scared. So scared. Not only of losing the game, but also of winning.

He'd never in his life been scared of success before, never had these twisted conflicted stop-start impulses throwing him off his stride. It was unnerving; it was _wrong_. So when Peter spoke from right behind him, said they didn't have time for coffee, they should get back to the office and get started on the Stolson report, and Neal turned to face him and really looked at him, relaxed, smiling, car keys in his hand and his suit covered in Celine hair, the imbalance was infuriating. It was supposed to be Neal who was in control. So he kissed him.

At first it was awkward, but Neal could work with that; he was good at salvaging operations gone awry. He caught Peter's hand where it was hovering in the air beside them and drew it down to his waist, and then he put his hands on Peter's face and kissed him, warm, firm, breathing hard and _using_ that—the adrenaline, the fear—pouring them into the kiss, and Peter's grip tightened, Peter was kissing him back, unleashing a wild reckless desire that Neal had only guessed at, more than he'd ever hoped for, flooding Neal with heat and longing until—

Peter grabbed his wrists and pushed him away. "No."

He looked undone, rumpled and thoroughly kissed, but he was back in control of himself, clearly determined to call a halt. All that passion bottled away, hidden behind a bad suit and a taut expression.

"But—" Neal couldn't remember any of the reasons, the arguments he'd planned out. Too raw and desperate to strategize.

Peter licked his lips, pressed them together and met Neal's gaze, man to man. "No."

He was still holding Neal's wrists like handcuffs, his car keys digging into the heel of Neal's hand. Neal could feel his own pulse in the grip, blood pounding. "Why not?"

Peter took a deep breath through his nose. Neal could see him turning back into Agent Peter Burke, right before his eyes. "Because I'm responsible for you. The Bureau has entrusted me with your parole. So I'm not doing this, so stop throwing out lures."

"You're going to let that stop you?" Neal shifted, frustrated, dying to get closer, his body clamoring for more contact, for release, for _sex_.

"I'm not getting involved with someone I might have to send back to prison," said Peter, his voice low and rapid. Trying to convince Neal. Trying to convince himself. "Neither is Elizabeth. You saw her when her friend's husband was arrested—"

"Wrongfully arrested," said Neal. "It wouldn't be like—"

"We didn't know that then," Peter cut him off. "There are two issues here: conflict of interest and—well, at best it would be sexual misconduct. Strangely enough I'm not wild about either of them." He dropped Neal's wrists and stepped back, nearly treading on Celine who was standing behind him, whining, unnoticed.

"It wouldn't be—I _want_ it, Peter." Neal followed him. "And you want me."

Peter shot him an exasperated look. "Yeah, I do." He rubbed his face. "I'm already compromised. I get in any deeper and the line between compromised and corrupted starts to blur. Find someone else."

"No," said Neal. "If that's all that's stopping you, I'll fix it."

"You'll—" Peter's eyes narrowed. "How?"

Neal shook his head, a plan already forming. It was a last resort, the ace in his sleeve he'd hoped never to play, but desperate times called for desperate measures. "I can't tell you. Just—trust me."

Peter looked away, out through the windows at the heavy winter sky, gray clouds bulging. He looked tired, his shoulders set like stone. "I wish I could."

 

**22.**

"Moz, I need you to set up a meeting with Wellesley Hampton."

"Okay, remember when I said you were insane for getting a dog?" said Mozzie, openly staring at him like he'd sprouted alien antenna. "I take it back. Getting a dog is whimsical. It's adorably eccentric. Voluntarily meeting with Wellesley Hampton? That is insane, my friend. That is beyond insane and into a dark madness of the soul. No, I will not set up a meeting. I refuse to have your blood on my hands."

"You won't," said Neal, moving one of his pawns. "I'll be fine. Hampton thinks he owes me." They were playing chess, and Neal was losing abysmally because of the puppy. He couldn't concentrate. Well, maybe it wasn't just the puppy. Hampton was the last person Neal wanted to have a face-to-face with. Mozzie's commentary wasn't helping any, either.

"Hampton thinks he owes you because _he thinks you shot his wife_," said Mozzie, punctuating the statement by circling his hand in the air. "Think about that for a minute. This is not a man you want to socialize with. It is a man you want to avoid at all costs."

"He's the only one I know who has the connections to get me out of my parole," said Neal, with all the finality he could muster. "Please, just set it up."

Mozzie paused in the middle of moving his rook and blinked at Neal. "Why?" he said. "Why now?"

Neal's eyes strayed to Celine.

"The dog wasn't enough, was it?" Mozzie leaned forward. "What's in this protected room that's so important? That you're willing to risk being murdered in cold-blood for? Because seriously, Neal, Hampton knows you're out here, he almost certainly knows you're cavorting around with the FBI. He knows you know he wanted his wife dead. Maybe he even knows you didn't pull the trigger."

"It's a risk I have to take," said Neal, sticking his chin out. He couldn't stop thinking about the kiss. No way was he letting Peter's antiquated ethics get in the way of a repeat performance and more. He tapped his fingernails on the edge of the chessboard. "I can handle Hampton. Your turn."

"Hampton is not someone you 'handle'," said Mozzie, making air quotes and looking more and more worried. "Is this about Kate? Because you're actually starting to scare me now."

"It's not about Kate." Neal hadn't thought about Kate in days, which was almost funny, given that chasing after her had landed him in this situation in the first place: under Peter's authority, so near and yet so far from the things he now wanted. "It's—"

"It's someone," said Mozzie positively. "You don't get like this about stuff, not even the map of Vinland. Who is it? Is it June?"

"What?" That made no sense at all. "Why would it be June?"

"Hey, she lets you live here rent-free." Mozzie shrugged and sipped his coffee. "It's not that big a leap, man."

"It's not June. It's not—" _a person,_ he was going to say, but then Mozzie would want to know what it was, and Neal suddenly didn't have the energy to keep his secret anymore. Not from Moz. "It's Peter. And Elizabeth."

Mozzie frowned. "What?"

Luckily, Celine chose that moment to stop gnawing thoughtfully on the side of her basket. She came trotting over and nosed Neal's tracker. Neal bent down and petted her so he didn't have to look Mozzie in the eye while he said, "I want to make a move on them. Uh, in the romantic sense. And Peter won't go along with it as long as he's my handler."

Celine leaned into his strokes, and Neal kept patting her, knowing that Mozzie was staring at him in silent disbelief. The silence didn't last as long as Neal expected.

"And for this, you're prepared to call in a favor from Wellesley Hampton," said Mozzie slowly, as if he were waiting for a punch line.

Neal sat up again and faced him squarely. "Yes."

Mozzie shook his head. "You realize that if he gets you off your parole, you could go anywhere. Anywhere! You won't be stuck in a two-mile radius in New York anymore."

Neal hadn't actually considered that. "I don't want to go anywhere. I don't want anything else to change. I just want to be a free agent, so Peter can't use my parole as an excuse not to—"

"I don't need details," said Mozzie hastily, covering his eyes.

Neal looked blindly at the board and relived the afternoon's kiss. "Please, Moz. Just set up the meeting."

 

**23.**

The meeting with Hampton was scheduled for late on Friday. Neal spent the week on edge, trying to play cool and patient while Peter kept him at arm's length and Celine shed on every article of clothing he owned.

Thursday was sunny and warmer, and Elizabeth asked Neal, via Peter, to join them for lunch in the park. "Don't get excited," said Peter gruffly. "She wants to meet the puppy."

Neal sent her a text message—_Bring Satchmo._—enjoying the frisson of anticipation, despite Peter's attempts to dampen his mood. It felt like he hadn't seen Elizabeth in weeks, and he missed her company. Plus she inevitably brought out the best in Peter, and Neal was sick of the cold shoulder treatment. He wanted them to let him in, to bestow that special secret smile on him that they shared with each other, to _need_ him. For that, he was prepared to be whoever they wanted and to do whatever it took.

"Oh, aren't you adorable!" Elizabeth crouched down to fuss over Celine, while Peter and Neal stood watching, Neal feeling smug and doing a bad job of hiding it. He'd known Celine was perfect the moment he laid eyes on her, and Peter and Elizabeth both seemed to agree.

"Looks like you've got a hit," said Peter, echoing his thoughts. "How are you finding being a responsible dog owner, anyway? That's got to be cramping your style."

"It is, actually," said Neal, choosing to take him literally. He stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned fondly at Celine. "She barks her head off if I wear a hat. I think she thinks something's attacking my head."

Peter laughed, relaxed for a moment like he had been at the wine bar with Miguel, and Neal's desire rose to the surface. He pushed it down again and looked away, back to Elizabeth and the puppy. "No Satchmo?"

"Can't bring him on the subway unless he's in a dog carrier, and he hates the carrier," said Peter. "I could have told you that."

"Well, I guess we'll have to join you at the dog park sometime," Neal said, as blandly as he could. He knew Peter was giving him a warning look, but he refused to acknowledge it.

It was a good ten minutes before Elizabeth managed to tear herself away from playing with Celine and join them on a park bench for lunch. Celine curled up against Neal's shoes and immediately fell asleep.

"I think you wore her out," said Peter, passing Elizabeth the turkey on rye they'd bought her from the deli near the office.

"It's mutual." Elizabeth's cheeks were pink from the brisk air. "I can't believe I have to go back to the office this afternoon."

"Play hooky," suggested Neal, forgetting that he was supposed to be responsible now. He could talk her into it, he was sure, and maybe even twist Peter's arm into letting them join her. "Take the afternoon off."

Elizabeth and Peter exchanged glances, apparently involving some kind of telepathy, and she shook her head. "I wouldn't have much of a business if I stayed home every time I felt like it."

"Of course." Neal gave in gracefully, opting for the better part of valor. But the idea of spending a leisurely afternoon with the two of them haunted him for the rest of the day, hardening his resolve to meet with Hampton and get one step closer to making it a reality.

 

**24.**

The following Wednesday afternoon, Hughes showed up in Peter's office doorway with a sheaf of official-looking documents in one hand and a quizzical look on his face. Neal, who was explaining some of the finer details of hypothetical bond forgery to Peter, got a tingle down his spine.

Hughes cleared his throat to attract Peter's attention. "I just got word from the DoJ. Apparently Caffrey has paid his debt to society."

Success was finally within reach. Neal sat back in his seat and grinned. "That's good to hear. I hate being in debt."

Peter didn't even swat at him. He was staring at the papers in Hughes's hand as if he'd had not just the rug, but the entire building pulled out from under him. "How? He's still got three years and change."

Hughes tapped his thumb against the papers. "The documents are light on detail, but I called and they confirmed that they've commuted the remainder of his sentence. Who are we to argue?" He handed Peter the memo and nodded to Neal. "As of this afternoon, you're free to go."

He didn't seem too bothered. Neal figured that anyone who'd worked in law enforcement as long as Hughes, had to have accepted that justice was an elastic concept, dependent at one end on the particular charges, the available evidence, the quality of the defense, and the judge and jury of the day, and sometimes undercut at the other end by connections and pulled strings.

Still, it didn't hurt to play nice, particularly since Neal had every intention of continuing to work with the Bureau and Peter, though preferably with better terms of employment. He got up and shook Hughes' hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Try to stay out of trouble, Caffrey," said Hughes, as if he doubted it was possible but felt duty bound to say it regardless. He turned and left.

"That's it?" said Neal, to the room at large. "No ceremony? No diploma?" He turned to find Peter's stare transferred to him and blindingly intense. They faced each other across the desk.

Peter had his lips pressed together, and he looked like he didn't know if he should be laughing or launching an investigation into Neal's movements over the past couple of weeks. He glanced at the memo in his hand, and then back to Neal's face. "What did you do?"

Neal held up his hands. "It's what I didn't do. I didn't steal a Titian from a very well-connected man nearly six years ago."

Peter frowned. "And for that, you get three and a half years of your sentence commuted?"

"I was in the right place at the wrong time." Neal shrugged. "You heard Hughes: it's all aboveboard. I'm a free man." He considered vaulting over the desk, grabbing Peter by the shoulders and kissing him extravagantly, like something out of an old movie, but from Peter's expression, he was still playing catch-up. It was still too soon. Neal wasn't sure how much longer he could wait.

So he compromised by setting his foot on Peter's visitor's chair and pulling up his pant leg to reveal the blinking green light of the tracker. "Will you do the honors?"

Peter shook himself like he was coming out of a trance. He dug the familiar wire cutters out of his desk drawer and started to hand them over, then changed his mind and stood up. Neal watched silently as he approached, taller and broader-shouldered than him, a tilt to the corner of his mouth. He moved into Neal's personal space and for a breathless moment, Neal was sure he was going to take the initiative and kiss _him_. But no such luck. Peter lightly touched his arm, then bent and cut through the anklet, twisting the cutters to sever the band. The backs of his fingers were warm and dry, brushing Neal's leg through his socks, and Neal started to get turned on, dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from reaching for him.

Peter inhaled sharply and stood up, standing close with the cutters in one hand, the anklet dangling from the other. He was breathing unevenly, his face a kaleidoscope of affection and regret. He stepped back and cleared his throat. "So what are you going to do with yourself now?" He dropped the anklet on his desk. "Should I call you a cab to the airport?"

Neal dropped his pant leg and put his foot on the ground. His ankle felt naked after all these months. He kept his voice low, just between them. "You should take me home with you."

"Neal—" Peter frowned, wanting but still doubting.

Neal held out his hands, palms up—_trust me_—and added, "Peter, I'll do whatever it takes."

"That's what scares me," muttered Peter, but he met Neal's gaze, and his expression softened, the crinkles around his eyes deepening, and God, everything Neal wanted was right there for the taking: love, need, even trust.

Neal had to swallow before he could talk. "Now. Please."

 

**25.**

Elizabeth was at work, so Peter drove there to pick her up and take her home with them, but by the time they got to Burke Premier Events, Neal was so on edge, he couldn't wait anymore. The roulette wheel had spun in his favor, and he had to cash in right now before they realized the game was rigged. He followed Peter into the showroom and then herded him and Elizabeth into the storeroom at the back, while Elizabeth's assistant Yvonne looked on with open curiosity.

"What's going on?" asked Elizabeth, looking askance as Neal closed the door after them. "Is everything all right?"

He wanted to take her in his arms—try the old movie kiss on her—but he held back. He was too close to mess up now. Let Peter pave the way.

The room was cool and quiet, one wall stacked with crates of expensive wine, another lined with shelves that held extension cords, a mid-sized stereo, some stage lights, and various other useful-looking equipment. There was a large freezer in the corner, humming away, and a faint scent of photographic chemicals and flowers.

"Neal's been released from his parole," said Peter bluntly.

Neal showed her his bare ankle, looking earnest and—because he couldn't help himself—pleased.

"Oh." Elizabeth's gaze darted to Peter, and she put her hands on her hips. "How?"

"It's not important," said Neal quickly.

She licked her lips. "And—But—"

"Exactly," said Peter drily.

The air started to hum. Neal was almost certain it wasn't the freezer. Something magical was about to happen.

Elizabeth exchanged a complicated glance with Peter, and then turned and approached Neal. "And you still want—?"

"Both of you," said Neal. "Very much." His voice rang with sincerity—it was a nice touch.

Elizabeth blushed and looked to Peter again, who shrugged helplessly. It was obvious they'd talked about this before, and equally obvious that by bringing Neal here, Peter had made his choice. Now it was up to Elizabeth. Neal held his breath as she moved toward him, her defenses visibly falling away.

"You couldn't wait until this evening?" she asked, teasing.

He did his best to look adult and responsible, but— "I've been waiting for months," he pointed out. He let his fingertips graze her cheek and watched fascinated as the tip of her tongue slid across her lips, leaving them glossy. Her eyes were fixed on him, dark and shining.

"Yes." She slipped her arms around his neck, and then he was holding her after all this time, her body pressed against his just as he'd planned. She stood on tiptoe and drew him down, bringing their mouths together, and he forgot everything else, groaning when her small hands snuck under his jacket and mapped out his back through his cotton shirt.

He gripped her hips and tugged her closer, euphoric and aroused. He could have her and Peter too. Now—here, if he played his cards right. He'd won. Triumph fizzed like champagne in his veins. Elizabeth was incredible. Peter was a whole different kind of incendiary—it had all been worth it to end up here.

A hot heavy hand landed on the nape of his neck, and Neal gently pulled away from Elizabeth, dazed stupid, almost intoxicated, and found Peter close, his body radiating heat, his gaze intent. Still in Elizabeth's arms, Neal leaned sideways and took Peter's mouth, slid his tongue in and thrilled to the pit of his stomach when Peter responded immediately, fierce and hungry. This was going to be unbelievable. He almost laughed.

"Oh God," murmured Elizabeth fervently beside them, as if she thought so too. Her fingers laced with Neal's, innocent and sure, and his gut twisted, a chill sliding down his spine like a half-forgotten faux pas or coming face to face with an unexpected security camera.

They were good, both such good people, and he'd beaten all their security measures. He'd hacked the alarm, picked the lock, slipped inside to the heart of them. He was—

Peter tightened his grip, moved closer and bit at Neal's lips, sucked at them, openly wanting him, and Neal tasted faint hints of bad FBI coffee, a vivid reminder that Peter was honorable, straight-up, salt of the earth.

Neal's triumph thickened and curdled in his stomach. A con wasn't just a convenient maneuver to get his way. It wasn't a chess game or a lifestyle choice. If they knew, they'd never—

He pushed Peter away and scrambled to get his thoughts straight.

"Neal?" said Elizabeth, squeezing his hand. He could hear the confusion in her voice, but he couldn't look at her.

Peter was alert and watching his every move. "Is everything okay?"

"No." Neal dropped Elizabeth's hand and stepped away from them both, his mind already automatically calculating how to present the truth in such a way that they'd forgive him. How to con his way out of the con without losing everything. God, he could lose _everything_.

"What is it?" asked Peter.

"I can't." Neal risked a glance at them. They looked bewildered, concerned—not angry yet. Anger would come. "All of this—my parole, asking you to look out for Kate, Celine—" He took a breath.

"What?" said Elizabeth.

Peter's attention burned like the sun.

Neal raised his chin, ignoring his own dread and the clever voice in his head screaming for him to stop, to strategize his way out of this. It wasn't too late! "They were a scam. I wanted you to think I'd changed."

The words seemed to echo around the room, damning and irrevocable.

A frown gathered on Peter's forehead. "Why?"

"Because I want you," said Neal. His voice shook. He clenched his hands. "I knew you wouldn't—let me in as I am, so I—" He trailed off helplessly.

"Conned us," said Elizabeth into the silence. "You conned us, and we fell for it."

Peter flinched.

"I am so sorry," said Neal. "I didn't mean to hurt you—either of you. I didn't even think about it. I just—"

"You just promised us whatever we wanted, so you could get your way." Peter's voice was harsh. "You played me. You got a _puppy_."

"I never lied to you, Peter." That was important, a line he'd never crossed, but Peter's expression of hurt and righteous anger made it clear it wasn't enough. Neal dug his nails into his palms. This was worse than he could have imagined. The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet. "I'm telling you now. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"No," said Elizabeth, her hands were fisted as if she wanted to punch him in the face. "I told you how it works and you used that."

"Because your rules are bullshit," Neal shot back, desperately. "You said we all had to want the same things, but love isn't about finding someone who fits inside your neat little box. It's risk and uncertainty and _compromise_." He shook off the inner voice that was telling him to spin them a line and said, "I don't know where I'm going or if I want what you want. I do know that right now, I'd do anything for either of you. Anything. But I'm not going to con you with a fairytale." He went to Elizabeth and tried to take her hands. "What do you need from me?"

She snatched her hands away, eyes blazing, and he couldn't tell if she was more mad because he'd lied or because he'd told her the truth. "I need people who don't lie to me," she said. "I need people we can count on." Her voice shook. "Get out of here, Neal, before I—" She raised her fist, and she was half a foot shorter than him, it shouldn't have been frightening, but it was Elizabeth glaring furiously at him, and he'd betrayed her.

"Elizabeth, I'm _sorry_," said Neal. "Please, can't we find a way to get past this?"

But Peter had him by the arm, was almost frog-marching him to the door, no sympathy or kindness in his grip. Relentless. "You heard her," he said. "Go."

 

**26.**

Neal would have walked for hours through the backblocks of Manhattan, to think and process and try to figure out what came next—whether his bridges were as irretrievably burned as they seemed, and if so, what he'd do with the giant gaping hole he'd torn in his life—but Celine had been on her own all day. He headed home to June's, aware of a black hopelessness that darkened his path, turned the city monochromatic and bleak.

Under normal circumstances, he'd have shrugged off the setback, confident in his ability to win Peter and Elizabeth back, but if he couldn't con them, couldn't charm his way back, he had nothing. He'd done this, he'd hurt them. Elizabeth's fury was proof of that, and Peter—Neal could still see the hurt on his face, how he'd flinched when Elizabeth said _You conned us._ They were so protective of each other, even if they'd consider forgiving him on their own behalves, they'd never relent on each other's.

And it wasn't like Neal deserved their forgiveness. Prison had often felt like a stupid overreaction to theft and bond forgery and jailbreaks, but for this, for manipulating Peter's and Elizabeth's affections—

He dug his hands in his pockets and kept his head down against the wind. This was who he was, what he did. They'd known that. Peter, of all people, had been forewarned.

Somehow, that only made it worse.

 

**27.**

Neal was packing up Celine's things when Mozzie let himself in. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to find Celine a new home," said Neal without looking up. "The con's over."

"I heard," said Mozzie. "Too bad about Wellesley Hampton."

"What?" Not that Neal cared. His meeting with Hampton had been brief and surprisingly civilized—once Hampton had established Neal wasn't trying to blackmail him, he'd barely blinked at Neal's request, but none of that mattered now.

"You didn't hear?" Mozzie unwound his scarf and put some water on for coffee. "One of the higher ups at the DoJ, Wordsworth, pulled one too many backroom deals and got busted for corrupt practices. He took Hampton down with him."

Neal paused with a rubber ball in his hand. Had commuting his parole been Hampton's undoing? The timing was suggestive, but there was no way to be sure. He shrugged inwardly and dropped the ball into Celine's box.

"I guess with Hampton out of commission, you're back to square one," said Mozzie. He hung his coat on the back of a chair. "Maybe if we—"

Neal showed his ankle.

"Wait, you're free? Then you won." Mozzie stepped closer and must have seen Neal's face. "You didn't win. What happened?"

Neal scanned the floor to see if he'd missed any puppy paraphernalia. "I saw the error of my ways. Look, I really don't want to talk about it."

"And you're getting rid of the dog?" Mozzie seemed genuinely surprised. "You love that dog."

"She's part of the con," said Neal. "The con's over." Celine would only be a reminder of his failure—to follow through on his plans, to be a decent human being. At the moment, both failures stung about equally, but only one would leave a lasting scar. "I've put an ad on craigslist."

Mozzie regarded him somberly for a minute, then shook himself. "So we're leaving, right? Did you hear there's a Van Gogh exhibition touring the West Coast? Oh, and that statuette of the boy fishing you've always wanted is on display in Chicago now."

Neal hardly heard him. "I'm not going anywhere."

"We could get Kate and go back to Europe," said Mozzie. "I miss the Netherlands and Prague. And Oslo at this time of year is—well, _cold_, but still."

Neal's body was leaden. "Go without me."

Mozzie crouched in front of him, his face round and expressionless. "The world is your candy store. What's keeping you here, man?"

Neal didn't know the answer. June, perhaps. Habit. Self-loathing. Or perhaps it was the inextinguishable spark of hope that somehow things would work themselves out. That even though he didn't deserve Peter and Elizabeth's pardon, they'd give it anyway.

He remembered Peter's flinch. "You're right," he told Mozzie. "We should go."

"I can tell this is going to be a barrel of laughs," remarked Mozzie. "You're such a joy to behold when you're playing the martyr. At least the Suit didn't leave you an empty bottle." He took the box of chew toys and empty food dishes out of Neal's hands and emptied it onto the bed, next to the sleeping Celine. "You're not getting rid of the dog. If you do, you'll just spend the next six months moping about that."

"Moz," Neal warned him. "Butt out."

"Okay, fine. I'll take the dog." Mozzie started stuffing chew toys into his pockets.

"You don't even like her." Neal didn't have the energy for this. He turned away and threw himself on the couch. "Fine. She's all yours."

Mozzie made two cups of coffee. His pockets were bulging with rawhide bones and rubber balls. "It gets better, man. You know that. It sucks, but it gets better."

"I don't want to talk about it." Sure, maybe one day thinking about Peter and Elizabeth wouldn't be an exercise in active self-torture. Maybe that would fade, and he'd stop caring, and life would pick up speed again, go from black and white back to Technicolor. But the knowledge that he could willfully cause such harm to people he loved—that wasn't something he could or wanted to forget. "I need to sleep," he lied. "If you're staying, you can take the bed, with your dog."

Mozzie took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "You know I have allergies."

"Then you shouldn't have got a dog." Neal lay down and spread the throw blanket over his legs. "Don't forget to feed her."

 

**28.**

Neal lay awake half the night, recriminating himself and pouring salt on his wounds, while pretending to be sound asleep for Mozzie's benefit. He did eventually drop off, and was woken in the early morning by two heavy puppy paws landing on his chest, and Celine's terrible morning breath.

"Moz! Your dog's hungry," said Neal, but there was no answer.

Celine licked his face and looked at him with liquid black eyes.

Neal petted her reluctantly. "I conned you too, you know."

Pretending to be responsible enough to provide her with a good home. Pretending she was more than just a prop in his scam. She nosed his chin, her tail going like a propeller, and Neal smiled despite himself and sat up so he could give her a proper scratch. There was no sign of Mozzie—he must have left in the night.

Neal's phone rang, and his heart leaped, hoping against hope that it would be Peter and Elizabeth, but when he answered it, a young-sounding guy said, "Hi, um, I saw your ad on craigslist about the puppy. Is it house-trained?"

Neal took an instant dislike to him. "I've already found her a home," he said and hung up. Two more calls and he turned off the ringer on his phone.

The day stretched out, empty and uninviting. He didn't belong to the FBI anymore, and he was pretty sure Peter wouldn't be in the mood to offer him gainful employment. He could hop a plane to anywhere, but there was Celine to consider. He could track down some of his less salubrious old acquaintances now he wasn't with the Bureau, but he didn't really want their company.

He sighed, got up and fed Celine and made coffee, poking grouchily at the clutter on the table as he did. Mozzie was not by nature a tidy person, and he'd apparently been looking for something—there were books and files stacked haphazardly on the table. Neal started putting them away—trying to unearth his laptop so he could remove Celine's listing, if only to stop the phonecalls—and came across the thin dossier on Miguel Serrallés that Mozzie had given him.

Neal weighed it in his hand a minute. That had been the start of it, that first meeting with Miguel. Perhaps if he re-traced his steps, he could figure out where he'd gone astray—at least learn from his mistakes.

He opened the file and the photos slid onto the floor. The sound caught Celine's attention and she trotted over to investigate, her chin wet from her water bowl, and Neal bent to scrape the photos into a pile and rescue them from her investigation. Miguel in a café, getting into a car, walking Satchmo. Miguel, whose relationship with Peter was easy and warm, despite whatever they'd been through.

Neal gazed at the photo of Miguel and Satchmo, and it struck him that this was who he'd been trying to be. This had been his cover. This man, who'd had what Neal wanted and had lost it, by choice or design.

It was still early. Neal wasn't constrained by his tracker anymore. He filled Celine's bowl to the brim, sent Mozzie a text message telling him to check on her that evening, found the business card Miguel had given him and caught a cab to the airport.

 

**29.**

The air in Dallas Fort Worth International Airport was warm and dry despite the torrential rain falling outside, and all the stores were playing Christmas carols despite it being mid-November. Being unencumbered with luggage made it easy to thread through the crowd, and Neal was at the taxi stand within fifteen minutes of disembarking from his flight. He'd only been to Dallas once before—in the mid-nineties, long before he'd met Kate or even Moz. Then he'd been casing the city, looking to see if it was the right place to hide some of his stash. This time, he sat in the back of the cab, hunched into his coat, clutching Miguel's card in his gloved hand.

The cab pulled up outside a mirror-glass tower block downtown, and Neal paid his fare and went inside, where a combination of the business card and quick talking got him as far as Miguel's PA. Then he hit a wall called Sheree.

"Mr. Serrallés is in a meeting. Is he expecting you?" Her gold jewelry reflected the office lights, and her bubblegum pink lips weren't exactly smiling but they were close. Neal knew exactly what to say to get her to rearrange Miguel's schedule to suit him, but he couldn't.

He couldn't summon the smile he needed. He couldn't turn on the charm knowing it might get her in trouble later. He couldn't use her.

"No," he said. "I mean, could you tell him Neal Caffrey's here to see him? I'm only in town for the day." It felt flat and unpersuasive, and he almost expected her to call security.

"Sure," she said, brightly oblivious. "He should be free in about an hour. Do you want to wait?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Neal took a seat and leafed through the newspaper, and tried to sort through his thoughts enough to figure out what he was doing here and what he was going to say. But by the time Miguel found him, an hour and a half and three cups of brewed coffee later, Neal was no closer to answers to either question.

"Neal Caffrey," said Miguel, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Jesus, it really is you. Isn't this a little outside your radius? What are you doing here?"

"I'm hoping you can tell me." Neal glanced at the wall clock behind Sheree. It was quarter to two. "Can I buy you lunch?"

Miguel's eyebrows shifted eloquently and he studied Neal for a moment, then beckoned him out of the visitors' chair. Neal stood up, feeling foolish and vulnerable.

"How about I buy you a drink?" suggested Miguel. He went over and had a quiet exchange with Sheree who shot Neal a curious glance, and then he ducked into his office and came out with an overcoat and scarf. "Come on, let's get out of here."

 

**30.**

Neal expected another high-end wine bar, but the place Miguel took him was a sports bar not far from Reunion Tower. Miguel ordered two beers, hot wings and fries, and sat them at a table near the fireplace. When Neal remarked on it, he shrugged and said, "I like log fires."

The food soon arrived and Neal realized he hadn't eaten much of anything since the previous afternoon. He dutifully drank his beer, though he'd have preferred more coffee, and listened to Miguel's rundown of his latest insurance case. From the MO, Neal was pretty sure he knew the thief, and he said so.

"Are you after a job?" asked Miguel. When Neal shook his head, he sighed and sat back in his seat. "So why are you here?"

Neal toyed with a French fry and said, "I'm in love with Peter and Elizabeth." It was strange to say it. All this time, he'd known he wanted them, but love was something else—big, world-changing and bleakly terrifying.

He thought Miguel might haul him out of his chair and punch him, but he just smiled wryly. "I don't think you're here for character references or permission."

"I fucked up," said Neal. His throat was dry. "I tried to con them into wanting me. I tried to be you." Miguel walking Satchmo in the dossier photo, being easy with them, sharing their warmth. Even after everything he'd done, he still wanted that more than anything.

Miguel still didn't look mad. He took a drink and stared into the fire for a while, and Neal waited for judgment and anger and scorn.

"We were together for nearly two years," said Miguel. "I moved in after a couple of months, and we—it was hard work. It was good, but God, it was hard. Negotiating everything. You know what they're like. El tries so hard to be nice all the damned time that she doesn't ask for what she needs, and Peter works too much, always has, and he can't stand feeling like a fool. This one time, we—" He trailed off and shook his head. "I'm not the easiest guy in the world to live with. Plenty of people would testify to that—my boyfriend, Todd, would be at the top of the list. And I love them to pieces, don't get me wrong, but nobody's perfect." His gaze sharpened and he pointed at Neal. "That includes you."

"I know that." Neal was listening with mixed feelings. He wasn't sure he should be hearing this at all, but since he was, he wanted to defend Peter and Elizabeth—they _were_ perfect, or damned close. And at the same time, there was twisted relief in being reminded he wasn't the only fallible person in the equation. "I hurt them."

"So don't beat yourself up about it. You're a smart kid—fix it." Miguel looked serious.

Neal poked at the fries, appetite forgotten. "It's too late for that."

Miguel put his elbows on the table and leaned in. He lowered his voice. "I probably shouldn't tell you this—Pete would kick my ass if he found out I'd said anything—but they already had feelings for you when I was there. Peter especially." Miguel's eyes were kind. "I want them to be happy, okay? I didn't do a great job of making that happen—maybe you can. But if you can't fix it when you screw up, you'll never get anywhere."

"I—" Neal blinked down at his beer glass. They'd wanted him, even before the con. And Miguel was pretty much giving his blessing.

Miguel looked at his watch. "Damn, I need to get back to the office." He reached for his scarf and coat. "Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"

"I'm flying home in a couple of hours." Neal held out his hand. "Thank you."

Miguel shook it. "Good luck."

After he left Neal stayed sitting by the fire, finishing the fries and making plans—hopeful, honest plans. He was smart—he could do this.

 

**31.**

The knock on the door came just as Neal was sliding the lasagna out of the oven, and it set Celine off. He put the food aside, tried to shush her and went to answer it, his hand fumbling on the door handle, clumsy with anticipation and nerves.

Elizabeth and Peter stood there, Elizabeth slightly in front. They had their coats over their arms, and Peter carried a bottle of wine, and they were both wearing cautious expressions, but they were here, willing to listen and perhaps to give him another chance.

"Hi," said Neal, opening the door wider so they could come in.

"Hi," said Elizabeth, walking past, and Peter pushed the cab sav into Neal's hand as he followed her, and said, "Whatever that is, it smells good," and then they were in his room.

Neal shut the door, wishing he could put a time lock on it to keep them here. Elizabeth gave her shoulder bag to Peter to hold and knelt down to pet Celine.

_Don't screw this up,_ Neal told himself, and then figured he might as well start as he meant to go on. "I'm glad you came," he said to both of them, "and I'm nervous."

Elizabeth looked up, pushing her hair back off her face. She nodded but didn't say anything, her hands stilling in Celine's fur, despite the puppy's wriggling.

Neal held her gaze and willed her to believe him. "I won't lie to you or deliberately mislead you again, I promise."

Her face softened, and she stood up and came over, touching Peter's shoulder on the way, and took Neal in her arms. It was a platonic hug, comforting and wonderful, while Peter looked on. Neal hugged back and thought his heart might break open. He hadn't earned this; she was meeting him halfway.

But Peter was still restrained, still keeping his distance—the guarded tension in his body an eloquent reminder of Miguel's advice that he hated being made a fool of—and Elizabeth was already stepping back. Neal let her go and tried to be patient, not to assume that absolution was only a matter of time and a simple dinner invitation.

He'd already set the table—nothing too fancy, no flowers, just a couple of candles, but he'd folded the napkins into swans, partly to calm himself while he waited. Now he put the lasagna next to the salad bowl and invited them to sit.

Elizabeth took the head of the table. While Neal opened the wine, she surveyed the spread, ran her finger along the folds of her napkin swan and said, "This is perfect. You know, Neal, it's really hard to stay mad at you."

"You have no idea how glad I am to hear that," said Neal, risking a small smile. He filled her glass, then Peter's and his own.

Peter snorted softly, and Neal swallowed the kneejerk impulse to try and charm him, and instead sat down across from him and said, "How have you been?"

Peter turned his glass on the table. "Pissed off," he said. "Busy. Work is—it's different." He met Neal's eye and added, "Have you thought what you're going to do with yourself, now you're a free man?"

"Not much beyond tonight," said Neal, holding his gaze. If tonight didn't go well, if his bridges really were well and truly burned, he couldn't stay here: he might have to take up Mozzie's suggestion and go back to Europe. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. He served the food, and added, "I thought the FBI might take me back. I don't want to be free of you, Peter—that wasn't why I did what I did. Exactly the opposite."

"I know," said Peter. He glanced at Elizabeth and sighed, then reached for her bag, which he'd put on the floor by his chair. "In the interest of full disclosure," he said and pulled a sketchbook out of the bag. Neal's sketchbook.

Neal reached to take it off him, to be sure he was seeing it right, and as he flicked through the pages—copies of others' works mixed in with his own studies, daydreams, desires; Peter and Elizabeth, together and separately; Peter's hand wrapped around his ankle; and toward the end, dozens of sketches of Celine—he grew more and more embarrassed and trapped feeling. They'd seen him, not just the Neal behind the con, but deeper—the self he barely knew.

He closed the pad, and the movement sent a thin sheet of paper skating across the table, stopped in its course by the salt shaker. It was a note in one of Mozzie's handwriting styles: _He doesn't know I'm sending this.—Haversham_

"Moz?" Neal turned the sketchbook over in his hands. No wonder Mozzie was in hiding. "When did you get this?"

"Yesterday, by special delivery," said Elizabeth. "It arrived about an hour before your flowers, and the note was at the back—we didn't see it until after we'd—"

Peter was watching him closely. "You really didn't know."

Neal tightened his grip on the book, and then he remembered where he was, what he wanted, and breathed out, almost a laugh. Wheels had been turning he hadn't even known about. He wasn't the only mastermind at work here—and the fact that Mozzie had taken steps to further Neal's chances was quite frankly astounding. "I don't know what to say. Do you know I talked to Miguel too?"

"Miguel's back in town?" asked Elizabeth, her fork poised over her plate. None of them had managed a single bite yet.

Neal ducked his head. "I went to see him in Texas."

"Oh, really." Peter took a drink while he assimilated that information. His attention was firmly fixed on Neal. "And what did he have to say?"

Neal gave a wry grimace. "I told him I'd fucked up, and he said I should stop beating myself up about it and fix it." He picked up his knife and fork, to have something to do with his hands. "And he wished me luck, for what that's worth." Miguel was an unexpected ally, and perhaps his opinion would have weight with them.

"Of course he did," said Peter, shaking his head. "And all this is to fix it?"

Neal put his cutlery down again and folded his arms on the table. "Ask me anything."

"Where's your stash?" asked Peter immediately, as if he'd been dying to ask for months.

Neal went cold. If he answered, Peter wouldn't have plausible deniability anymore. And if Peter actually tracked down the various stashes, he'd have to arrest Neal. All their potential snuffed out like a candle. "Are you sure you want me to answer that?"

Peter searched his face considering, and Neal didn't hide. He'd tell if Peter wanted him to. He'd do anything.

"Honey," murmured Elizabeth, and Neal almost told her that this had to be between him and Peter, but apparently her intervention was what Peter needed.

The stiffness in his shoulders eased for the first time since he'd arrived, and his mouth softened. "All right," he said gravely, but without the same do-or-die challenge, "tell me this, then: what do you want?"

That question, Neal was more than willing to answer, but he was careful to make his reply a statement of fact, rather than a request. "Forgiveness," he said, "even though I don't deserve it. I want to work with you and play hooky with both of you and know that we all belong together. I want to spend all day in bed with you. I want us to take vacations, and I want to buy you extravagant presents that you probably won't appreciate."

"Neal." Peter's cheeks were flushed.

Elizabeth was less impressed. "Relationships aren't all—"

"I want to look after you when you're sick," Neal continued, talking over her, far from finished, "and hold you when you're sad. I want to fight and make up and live and grow old together. I want Celine and Satchmo to be friends and for us to be family. I want you to let me love you." He stopped.

Elizabeth's eyes were warm and hopeful now, her mouth parted in an _oh_, and Peter pushed back his chair and stood up. "Come here."

"Are you sure?" asked Neal, but he was already on his way, unable to resist the invitation, and then Peter's arms closed around him, his mouth hot and hungry, setting Neal alight.

He was distantly aware of Elizabeth saying, half laughing, "Now we'll never get to eat," and he might have responded except that Peter's tongue was in his mouth, and Peter's hands were on him, demanding his attention, making his knees weak, and oh God, he needed this more than mere food. He spread his hands across the small of Peter's back, fingers digging into the firm muscles, and Peter rewarded him with a groan. And then Elizabeth was there beside them. Her hand on Neal's cheek drew him down to meet her lips, and she pressed up against his side, and he thought he might drown in so much sweetness and desire.

Celine whined from behind them, and Neal pulled back, breathing hard. "Hey," he said hoarsely. "Shall we—Are you guys hungry? Why don't we eat first." His body was greedy for their touch, but he'd cooked dinner, and there was far less frantic urgency than the last time, in Elizabeth's storeroom. He didn't have to worry about being found out now. They could enjoy the anticipation. "Save this for dessert?"

"If that's what you want," said Elizabeth, sounding reluctant.

Peter's hand was heavy on his shoulder, a finger or thumb stroking a line down his neck, and Neal leaned into him, sighing. "I'm torn," he admitted, "but we have all the time in the world, don't we?"

"Yeah, we do." Peter's voice was a low rumble in his ear, warm and full of promise, and Neal closed his eyes for a moment, surrounded by them and grateful for everything.

 

**32.**

Neal had meant for them to savor their meal, for it to be like a date, ripe with anticipation and flirting, but he was too impatient, too turned on to take his time with the food—he could hardly taste it—and apparently Elizabeth and Peter felt the same. Neal had eaten less than a third of his lasagna when he caught Elizabeth's eye.

She smiled and bit her lip.

"You know, they invented microwaves for a reason," said Peter.

"You're right," said Neal. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Oh, thank God," said Elizabeth and dropped her fork.

Neal shut Celine in the bathroom with her favorite toy, and met them by the bed, where Peter was undoing the clasp on Elizabeth's necklace, his fingers brushing the nape of her neck with so much sensuality that Neal's breath died in his throat. Peter coiled the necklace and put it on the nightstand, turned to Neal and they all came together. Within minutes, Neal was on his back on the bed, only partially undressed, the focus of both their attentions. Elizabeth lay beside him, stroking his chest, his face, and kissing him voluptuously, while Peter unfastened his pants and pressed his face to Neal's hipbone. "I want to taste you," he said, his hand ghosting over Neal's dick, hard in his briefs, making Neal shiver.

"Yeah." He clutched Peter's shoulder. "Please." His voice was raw and unsteady. It was hard to make sense of all the sensations, and he stopped trying, floating in a sea of pleasure, all liquid and gold, with Elizabeth as his only anchor. And as Peter went down on him, took him into his hot mouth, the gold gave way and Neal tensed around a darkly pulsing core.

Elizabeth gave no quarter either, her hands and mouth demanding a response. Neal slipped his fingers under her blouse and cupped her breast through the fine lace of her bra, squeezing involuntarily when Peter's knuckles slid down and back behind his balls. Elizabeth moaned and arched into Neal's touch—and the three of them were perfectly in tune, caught in a feedback loop of pure sex. Elizabeth took three of Neal's fingers into her mouth, and he gasped and concentrated on keeping it together. He didn't want this to end—maybe not ever and definitely not yet. But he got the message, despite his lust haze, and he pushed her blue linen skirt up and aside, enjoying the smooth silk of her inner thigh. Then he lightly scraped his nails across her underwear, between her legs, teasing her, making her cry out.

Peter sucked harder, and Neal swore, and when something—probably Peter's finger—brushed across his hole, his hips hitched up of their own accord. God, that was almost more than he could bear. He nudged aside the gusset of Elizabeth's panties and slid his fingers into her slick heat, then pulled away far enough to see her face, her eyelids fluttering shut, her lips full and parted.

Peter's mouth moved on his dick, and Elizabeth moved on his fingers, and it was as if Neal were fucking both of them at once, all of them caught up in the same moment, the same tide. Peter slung his forearm low across Neal's belly, holding him down, and Neal stiffened. "Fuck, Peter, that's—" He struggled for breath and self-control. "—so good, so—God, is it always this—"

Elizabeth kissed him messily, cutting him off. She was rolling her hips, riding his hand, and he didn't even know what that was doing to him—that Elizabeth was taking what she needed, shameless and still mostly dressed. It was all jumbled together, all heat and urgency and movement, and then Peter stopped working his dirty magic and for a second Neal thought he might be able to hold off, to keep this going forever. But Peter's hand clamped on his left ankle, where the tracker had been only days ago, and between that and being held down, Peter sucking him and Elizabeth, oh God, Elizabeth, Neal lost it, didn't even have time to warn Peter before his orgasm hit like a thunderclap, like being torn to pieces, relentless and exquisitely intense.

Peter's grip tightened, and Elizabeth's movements sped up. Neal kissed her, his free hand buried in her hair, shaping the delicate curve of her skull. She clenched around his fingers, coming, her body throbbing, and it made him feel invincible and humbled and unbelievably lucky.

After a long while, she eased off him and slumped against his side, kissing the angle of his shoulder with her lips and teeth. Neal let his head fall back on the—not pillow, they were sideways on the bed; must be the covers—and blinked blurrily up at Peter, kneeling between his legs, watching, his lips swollen from sucking Neal's dick.

That blew Neal's mind all over again, and it took a few moments to gather his strength and get up on one elbow. He licked his lips. "My turn."

"Yes," said Elizabeth in his ear. "I want to see that, please."

"So do I," Peter told Neal, "but this isn't a competition. You don't have to do anything you don't want to." He moved up to lie on Neal's other side, and pressed his lips to Neal's jaw, then his mouth. He tasted sharp and bitter—of Neal—and Neal's heart stuttered.

"I want to." It was honest and true, and Neal pried himself out from between them and helped Peter off with his pants and shorts.

"Next time we all get naked," said Elizabeth, unbuttoning Peter's shirt. "Properly naked. At least you didn't wear a tie."

"And I notice you didn't wear pantyhose," said Peter and kissed her deeply before she could reply.

Neal watched in wonder, then decided to take advantage of their distractedness. Peter's dick was heavy and hard, lying in the crease of his hip as he angled toward Elizabeth. Neal reached out and touched the taut, velvety skin, then bent and traced a vein with his tongue, right down to the wiry pubes and up again. Peter smelled amazing, all musk and skin and sex, and Neal sucked the head into his mouth without hesitation, looking up to lock gazes with Peter, who'd stopped kissing Elizabeth and stuffed a pillow under his head so he could see.

Neal wrapped one hand around the base of Peter's dick, cradled the balls in the other hand, and gave his first ever blowjob, relishing every reaction, every twitch and pulse, and the way Peter's thighs tensed, and how Peter's hands gently shaped his face.

Elizabeth scooted down the bed to watch, her head propped on her hand, her eyes dark and dreamy. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and maybe Neal should have felt self-conscious, but he'd always been good at putting on a show.

The thought sent him skidding to a halt, and he raised his head, letting Peter's erection slip from his mouth. He turned to face Elizabeth. "Making something look good—that's not the same as lying, okay?"

Her mouth twisted into a complicated smile. "Oh honey." She kissed him, her tongue flicking against his, and he opened to her, relieved.

Peter cleared his throat pointedly, and Elizabeth grinned at Neal. "Tag team?"

He nodded dumbly, getting turned on again at the thought of it. Elizabeth held her hair back and bent in to suck Peter's dick, her lips stretching wide, her mouth sinking all the way down to meet Neal's hand, over and over.

"Oh God, Elizabeth," Neal said fervently. "I will follow you anywhere and do anything at all—"

Her eyes sparkled, and she raised up again, her chin wet with saliva. "Your turn."

He moved in, more than ready, and felt her hand on his back. "Oh, and Neal, honey? It's not a competition."

He winked at her and sucked her husband's dick the very best he could, drawing on everything he knew about sex and blowjobs in general, and Peter in particular.

Elizabeth murmured her approval. "You look incredible. I think I could come just from watching you."

Peter bit out a curse, his muscles tightening till his body shook. Neal remembered what Peter had done to him, and slid a wet finger back behind Peter's balls, trying to drive him out of his mind, tit for tat, and that must have been the magic bullet or something, because Peter flung his arm across his face to stifle his groan and thrust up into Neal's fist and mouth in ragged urgent movements, and then spilled on Neal's tongue, hot and salty and undeniably real.

Neal pulled off slowly, finding and holding Peter's gaze, and swallowed. Peter reached for him at once, pulling him and Elizabeth into an awkward perfect hug of too many arms and rumpled clothes, and Neal kissed him, kissed his mouth, a long devout silent promise that this was it, this was how it was going to be from now on, and nothing could change that.

"You," said Elizabeth with mock severity, "have been driving us crazy for months now." So Neal kissed her too, with all the same passion and commitment.

"Every time you smiled at me," said Peter softly in his ear. "Christ, just the way you look at me is like a drug."

"It's mutual," said Neal. "It's amazing we got any work done at all."

Peter laughed, a low joyful sound, and Elizabeth hugged them both tight. "The last two days have been hell. Thank you for fixing it."

 

**33.**

Later that same evening, Neal sat in the back seat of their car with his overnight bag and his hand on Celine's collar. They were going home with Peter and Elizabeth for the weekend.

"What if they don't get along?" asked Neal, as they crossed the midpoint of Brooklyn Bridge.

"Satch likes other dogs and Celine's a sweetie. They'll be fine," said Elizabeth from behind the wheel.

Peter twisted in the passenger seat to face him. "If they're not, you can con Satchmo. I have complete confidence in your ability to do that. But you won't have to."

Neal smiled at them both—Elizabeth in the rear view mirror—then looked down at Celine again and rubbed her ears. "You know, I'm pretty sure that if I asked June nicely, she'd let Mozzie have my room."

Peter reached back and grasped his knee. "I think he's earned it."

"We're going to need a bigger yard," said Elizabeth. "Aren't we, baby?" She reached back, and Celine licked her fingers.

Neal relaxed again, thought he might be visibly glowing, he was so pleased and sure of them. It was like actually going home. He craned his head until he could look up through the back windshield at the streetlights as they passed, and he started plotting just in case. He'd never tried to con a dog before.

 

END


End file.
